


P(hazes) of Us

by garbagegirls



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Neighbors, POV Second Person, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-04-06 08:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14052948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garbagegirls/pseuds/garbagegirls
Summary: In high school, you may have had a bit of a crush on the older, cooler Lexa Woods. And yeah, ask anyone else and they might say it was more than you're letting on, but it's been nine years since you last saw her, and you're not the pathetic, pining mess you were when you were a teenager. Right?





	1. Clexa

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a thing.
> 
> Let me know if you like it.
> 
> PS. I describe Lexa as being 'barely-legal' at some point during this chapter in reference to Clarke's fifteen-year-old pining to highlight their age difference, but also because I think it's funny to imagine a young Clarke drooling over the older Lexa in that context, like - fifteen-year-old Clarke is so into barely legal girls. Still kind of sounds creepy... but it's v. pathetic, nerdy, teenaged Clarke.

It’s a typical Sunday.

Your alarm sounds at seven, and after fifteen minutes of scrolling mindlessly through your Instagram, you drag yourself out of bed. The typical haze of the morning stays with you while you brush your teeth, and while you pull on your running tights and sports bra, and while you carry yourself out the door.

Unfortunately, said morning haze lingers a bit longer than usual, but you pay it no mind because your feet are moving fast against hard concrete and it’s not as if you need total clarity to complete your regular 5k.

If there’s anything you can do without total clarity, it’s run.

When your lungs start to burn and your skin begins to shimmer with a medal of sweat, you know you’re nearly done. A couple of blocks east and you’ll be back at your apartment in no time, and while breakfast sounds tempting, you’re not ready to quit. So, you keep running, hoping that another couple of miles will clear out some of the fuzziness of your head.

You’re nearly done for the second time when you’re coming up on Octavia’s favorite coffee shop. You hear the door ding as you run past, but you don’t think anything of it until you hear your friend calling your name. Before you turn around, you wonder if you’re even surprised she’s there. Nah, you think; but, the fact that she’s awake before nine o’clock on a weekend _is_ baffling. You can’t remember the last time that happened.

You turn and circle back around to say hi, still jogging.

“Clarkey,” she says with a huge smile, and you’re floored by her good mood.

“What in tarnation? You’re awake before nine and you’re _chipper_?” you tease. “Did Linc wake you up with morning sex or something?”

“Har har,” she rolls her eyes with a feigned annoyance, and before she can explain, you notice her new boots.

“Damn, O. Those waders…” you drawl, stopping your in-place jog to take a closer look.

“Right? Lex gave them to me,” she replies, excitedly, and it takes you a minute – because, again, your brain is foggy as fuck – before you can process what she’s said, and when it finally does process, your eyes go wide and the door dings again and you see chestnut curls in your peripherals, and suddenly you’re freaking out because the girl who occupied all of your teenaged thoughts, who was single-handedly responsible for your first wet dream and many, many, many wet dreams to follow, is walking out the door of the shop, eyes already burning through you.

You take a deep breath in preparation, but it doesn’t do any good. You’re just... you’re not ready for this. Sure, it was bound to happen at some point. You’ve thought about it. Embarrassingly enough, you’ve gone so far as to _casually_ fanaticize about it. It’d be some sunny, brisk, late-September day. You’d look incredible in a cream-colored lightweight sweater with deep rust-orange scarf draped loosely around your neck. Your dark blue jeans would be hugging your ass just right, and your knee-high brown boots would pull your girl-next-door look together. You’d be strolling, maybe in a dog park. You don’t have a dog currently, but you could get one. A large, fluffy one, that likes to play fetch, that needs to socialize with other dogs regularly. Hence, dog park. So, you’d be there with Theo – the dog – because you have an understanding that he doesn’t chew on your shoes and you let him mingle, but this time he’d forget about you, and wander off, leaving you to look for him. After fifteen minutes of searching, you’d see him with another dog that closely mirrors his cuteness, and you’d run towards him, sighing as relief settles into your chest. He’d look up to see you coming, and his tail would start wagging, and he’d run to meet you halfway, tackling you playfully with utter excitement. Thankfully, Theo wouldn’t be much of a fan of dirt, and he’d often give himself baths to stay so fresh and so clean, so without the worry of him ruining your clothing, your face would light up with love as his paws wrap around you and you both tumble to the ground. It’d be so sweet, and you’d be so caught up in the moment that you wouldn’t notice the other dog’s owner until she was leaning down and smiling softly and pushing a strand of your windswept blonde hair behind your ear. And then you’d meet eyes, her gorgeous smile stretching the remaining way across her perfect face when she’d immediately realize it’s you, and she’d say something so incredible, something so romantic, something like –

“Clarke!”

And you’re pulled from your fantasy, still looking any place but her face as you desperately try to control your heart rate.

“What are the chances that we run into you when I’m only in town for a few hours?” she says, and you suck in a deep breath and urge yourself to calm the fuck down before you fake the bravery required to look up into those bright green eyes. When you finally muster the courage and connect your eyes with hers, you feel that familiar itch to paint her aesthetic because this woman is and always has been devastatingly beautiful – a beating, breathing masterpiece a la _The Birth of Venus_.

“Hey,” you choke out, noticing the tone of soft dreaminess in your voice and you cringe, feeling once more like the pathetic, love-sick high school freshman who pined endlessly over senior class president and soccer captain Lexa, in all of her barely-legal glory.

“Long time no see,” she smiles at you with so much warmth that your heart pounds frantically into overdrive and it crosses your mind that you could potentially be dying. Your mind flashes briefly to your tombstone…

 

> _Here lies Clarke Griffin_
> 
> _Died_ expectedly _of extreme thirst_

“Yeah, what’s it been? Like, seven, eight years?” you ask casually. But you know – it’s been nine years.

((Nine years and you’re no longer a kid. You’ve spent a third of your life without seeing her once, and your adult mind says a third of your life is an awful lot of time, comparatively. It tells you that after nearly a decade has passed, you’re not susceptible to previous weaknesses. It tells you that everything that had an effect on you in youth can no longer touch you _now_.

_Now_ – you scoff at childhood crushes, at idealistic romance, and most of all, at unrequited love. You’re an adult _now_ , so privy to the realistic, granular nature of existence that you’re no longer trying to fight against it in favor of some abstract, surreal picture of happiness that was once painted in all the hues of green to the insides of your eyelids.

You’re past that, _now_.

You’re past all of it, and your adult mind is so clear in its conviction, despite the fog that has indefinitely settled there, that you almost believe it.

But you know, on some level, that your adult mind is so conditional – so logical and calculated – that it cannot comprehend the unconditional. You know that, _because_ it is always in this constant state of judging the realm of possibilities, that it hasn’t considered what else might exist outside that query.

And it’s foolish, really, that you’ve allowed yourself to develop a false sense of security based on Boolean logic, when you know, in the deepest trenches of your soul, that your heart has never aged – that it’s never left _her_ in the past. You know that, regardless of the seconds, and days, and years, and decades that pass, dictating everything else in their wake, that time has no relevance in matters of the heart.

Deep down, you know your wild heart will beat timelessly for her, beyond reason and beyond your finite existence.

But right _now_ , you’re not as in touch with ‘ _deep down_ ’ as you’re just trying to survive this interaction.

Because you’re an idiot.))

“Nine,” she corrects, pulling you from your daze, and you find yourself wondering if she’s been counting the years since she’s seen you, too. “My college graduation party was the last time I saw you… and it’s been a little more than nine years since the party.”

You try to hide your disappointment by shooting a glance at Octavia, who is seemingly too busy scrolling through her phone to be bothered by your painfully pitiful stroll down memory lane. You release a sigh and turn your attention back to the subject of your brooding.

“You said you’re only in town for a few hours?” you ask, brows furrowed because it’s just occurred to you how that’s a bit weird, and she nods.

“Just signed a lease. I miss the cousins,” she smirks, nodding her head towards Octavia. “Pity they don’t feel the same.”

You reach over to nudge Octavia, but it’s far more aggressive than it should be because with the news of Lexa’s return, your head is swimming and your heart is suddenly hammering inside its cage once again, and this time you’re sure that it’s going to try to Kool-aid man out of there, and – and, how the fuck will you ever sleep again, knowing that Lexa is sharing your city?

“Ow! What the fuck, Clarke?” Octavia yells, way too loud for a very _public_ Sunday morning. You, of course, turn bright red, and the color only deepens when Lexa _laughs_. Your head is a mess, beyond the fuzz, because since when does Lexa laugh, let alone laugh like that – heartily and warm? _Jesus_ , you think, _it really has been nine years_ , and you desperately hope that you get to hear her laugh like that again because it makes your heart swell in a way that hasn’t happened since your dad passed away.

“Sorry?” you drone when you realize Octavia is glaring at you, obviously waiting for an apology.

“Wow, you seriously can’t even muster a genuine apology after that abuse? I suppose Clexa’s back in full force already, huh? It was only a matter of time, I guess.”

And if you thought you couldn’t get any redder with embarrassment, you’re sorely mistaken. You bite into your lip and squeeze your eyes shut as all of your body heat rushes to your cheeks, silently cursing fourteen-year-old you for not having the foresight to realize that telling Octavia about the couple name you made up for you and her older cousin was a fucking terrible idea that would come back to bite you in the ass time and time again.

When you open your eyes, Lexa is staring at you with the cutest grin you’ve ever seen, and god you feel as hopeless as you did when you first came up with the name.

“I can’t believe I forgot about Clexa,” she says, her green eyes twinkling like they did when you were kids and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

“If only I could be so lucky,” you mumble, and when the twinkle goes double-time, it dawns on you that _you_ did that. _You_ made the prettiest eyes in the universe sparkle for you and the sense of accomplishment that spawns from the realization is overwhelming.

You didn’t know you were so powerful.

“Well,” Octavia asserts, eyes wide as she glances between the two of you. Amusement is displayed all over her face and you know that the next time you see her, she’s going to have the time of her life giving you hell. “I hate to break up this blast-from-the-past reunion, but we’ve got to get you to the airport if you’re going to make your flight, Lex.”

And just like that, the twinkle is gone and so is your confidence. A soft smile is still front and center as she nods to Octavia, and steps into your space, throwing her arms around you without so much as a warning.

You want to inform her that you’re sweaty and probably smell terribly, that your heart is probably (definitely) thundering in your chest, because of the adrenaline of your workout, _obviously_. But the moment you’re in her embrace you can’t help but care about anything outside of the joy and safety you feel at being so close to her – wrapped tightly in those perfect arms of hers. You brace yourself, knowing that all too soon she’ll retract her limbs from their rightful place around you, and pull back, but she lingers, stays pressed up against you longer than you anticipate, and then she whispers, ‘ _it was so good to see you,_ ’ into your hair and a chill runs through you as her warm breath lands on your ear.

When she finally does pull back, you’re unprepared and so beyond breathless that you’re going to have to give up on finishing your run in favor of a slow walk back to your apartment.

“Let me know when you’re back and settled?” you manage, to your own disbelief. You’re fairly sure the world just started spinning again after a long, indefinite hiatus, and the fact that you can still speak at all is surprising.

“Of course, I hope we’ll see a lot of each other,” she says softly, nodding and holding eye contact before Octavia grabs her wrist and starts pulling her away from the coffee shop, away from you.

“Oh, I’m sure you guys will see a lot of each other,” Octavia rasps with an eye roll. You think maybe she’s making a joke at your expense again, but then she finishes her thought. “I mean, given that you’ll be living in the same building, on the same floor… I can’t imagine you not seeing a lot of one another.”

You barely register the smug look on Octavia’s face or the surprise on Lexa’s due to the overwhelming presence of your own shock.

The haze doesn’t clear for the rest of the day, and when you wake up on Monday morning, you’re sure it was all a dream.


	2. Drunk Pancakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke runs into Lexa at her apartment building, and as fate would have it, she's a bit too tipsy (and gay) to function.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your comments and kudos on the previous chapter! Let me know if you have any thoughts about this one?
> 
> Anecdotally, here's a confession: I've never made a pancake.

The next time you see her, her presence hits you like a ton of beautiful bricks.

It’s eleven thirty at night and you’re standing outside of your apartment door, going through your pockets to try and find where sober you put your keys for safekeeping when you hear someone come up the stairs.

You turn your head out of reflex and nearly gasp aloud when you see her. She’s in your apartment building – _her_ apartment building – balancing a box of books in between the front of her thigh and the wall as she tries to unlock her door, and blessed are the goddesses, for she has not yet noticed you.

Something inside of you tells you that you should offer to help, and while you know it would be the polite thing to do, you’re having a bit of an internal debate because you’re way too drunk to be around her and not make a fool of yourself.

But then she drops her keys and releases the cutest little whimper, and the small chuckle that works its way out of your mouth before you can snap your jaw shut removes your option for a clean getaway. So instead, you watch anxiously as her head shoots up to scan the hallway, her eyes settling on you a few doors down, probably looking just as wrecked as you suddenly feel.

“Clarke!” she gasps, “Have you been standing there and watching me struggle this whole time?”

And you have. Obviously, you have. You feel yourself blush and hope that your cheeks are already red from the drinking so that the pink that paints your face when she’s around isn’t as noticeable.

“I’m drunk,” you say, in hopes that will excuse you of your rude behavior, but when you remember that you didn’t want her to know that, you silently curse yourself.

“Damn it, Clarke?” she asks, as she sets her box of books down on the carpeted hallway floor and walks closer to you with her eyebrows raised in question.

“What?”

“You just said, _‘damn it, Clarke,’_ ” she explains.

So… you didn’t silently curse yourself.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” you clarify, but you’re not sure you should have said that either. All you can think is, _it’s happening_ , because you knew this would happen – this drunken, messy one-way exchange – which is why you should have taken the out when you had the chance.

“Didn’t mean to say that you’re drunk, or didn’t mean to say, _‘damn it, Clarke’_?” she asks, smirking and amused, and she’s so fucking beautiful that you’re sure in this moment that you’re not going to survive her this time around.

Not that you’ll remember that tomorrow.

You bite your bottom lip, feeling the warmth in your cheeks inch closer to combustion, before reluctantly admitting, “either,” as quietly as possible.

She purses her lips together, clearly pleased with your response. “Ahh, I remember this Clarke,” she says, “Clarke-who-can’t-hold-her-alcohol.”

And she’s right. She’s totally right. But you can’t let her win that easily, so you feign ignorance.

“What? Me? I can totally hold my alcohol. I’m not even _that_ drunk right now,” you tell her, and as the words leave your mouth, you’re faintly aware of how they trail together, soft and slurred.

“Right,” she nods as she sizes you up, narrowing her twinkling green eyes in disbelief. “Well, I suppose it has been nine years. Maybe I misremember those Party Girl Griffin cues – what a shame…”

“A shame? Why?” you mumble, questioningly.

“Well, I was going to invite you over so that we can catch up over drunk waffles, but if you’re not drunk…” she sing-songs, and there’s not even a beat of hesitance before you’re yelling out to her and telling her to _wait_ , when she hasn’t even fully turned to retreat to her apartment yet.

 _Damn it, Clarke!_ you think, because _damn it_. _Could you make it any easier on her?_ Old habits die hard, you suppose. In the past, she held all the cards because you couldn’t keep your hand to yourself. So, why should now be any different?

 _Because she has no power over you now_ , your head reprimands.

And when you notice her humming through her smirk of self-righteousness, knowing she’s won – your heart answers your head with a loud thump, as if to say, _keep telling yourself that_.

Yet, you can’t bring yourself to care about the collision between mind and body, because you’re too busy getting lost in the look you know all too well – too busy wondering how many girls have dropped to their knees at the sight of this smirk, aching to feel those pouty lips wherever the commander deems fit. You wonder how many girls have submitted to the practiced, perfectly-executed power that this woman wields so effortlessly.

And it sounds nice, but the want that twists low in your stomach aches to challenge her dominance. If you were ever so lucky as to share her bed for a night, you would spend it worshipping her body by pushing her limits. And at the mere sight of her token smirk, you’d have her pinned, the kindling press of your lips drawing out the piety of her own.

Because bowing to the commander could never be enough – you want to command her, too. You want to take down the walls built to tower around her heart and let her fall apart in the safety of your arms.

And you know that can never happen if she’s always in control.

God, if you could kiss that smirk off her face right now, you would. And _fuck_ , you’re so tempted.

Which is exactly why it’s such a terrible idea to follow her through her apartment door. Really – it’s beyond moronic.

But you follow her anyway – down the hall, waiting as she grabs her keys, unlocks the door, then grabs her box of books. You follow her as she steps inside, across the threshold, and when she sets her box down and closes the door behind you, you realize you’re past the point of no return.

You allow your gaze to wander, taking in the space before you. The layout of her apartment is close to yours, but her kitchen is more open, the space divided only by a light-colored, marble-topped island. The color accents are incredible: light-blue paint on the walls, greyish-brown hardwood floors, stainless steel appliances, with bits of white here and there for added effect. There’s a white orchid daintily draping over the far-edge of the island, and its existence in this space – in Lexa’s space – sends a jolt of warmth to your chest, because orchids are so delicate, and it’s clear that Lexa has been diligently taking care of this fragile blossom for some time now.

“Ice cubes,” she says, as she moves around her kitchen, presumably gathering items to make you her specialty pancakes. She grabs a glass from the cupboard a moment later, filling it with filtered water from the fridge, then sets it down in front of you without a word.

“Ice cubes? For the water?” you ask.

“No – the secret to keeping orchids alive…” she answers, smiling with her eyes as she cracks a large egg into a medium-sized mixing bowl.

“Good to know. I’m lousy at keeping things alive, so I need all the help I can get,” you admit before taking a gulp of water.

“Thank god you never went to med school like Abby wanted,” she says with a chuckle, and you feel yourself smiling at that.

“Can you imagine if I had? I’d have been the worst doctor ever.”

“I don’t know about that. In all honesty, I think you would have made a wonderful doctor. I would have come to you,” she offers, and you want to scoff at her for being so sweet.

“You would’ve been my only patient.”

“I like that doctor-to-patient ratio,” she retorts, grinning as she happily whisks away at her bowl of super-secret batter. You smile, allowing silence to comfortably settle between the two of you as she continues her task, and you can’t help but admire her – the flour on her nose, the strand of unkempt hair that has liberated itself from behind her ear – as she concentrates. Through your drunken haze, you don’t register that she’s stopped whisking until she’s looking at you with pink-tinged cheeks, obviously having caught you staring.

You clear your throat. “You, uh… you got a bit of flour on your nose,” you say, gesturing to your own nose while hoping it’s a good enough excuse for you to have been gawking at her like that.

“Oh,” she exhales, smiling as she tears a paper towel from the roll and lifts it to her nose, managing to dab everywhere but the spot the flour has claimed. “Did I get it?”

“Not quite,” you answer in amusement, chuckling at her when she huffs, adorably flustered.

“A little help, then?” she pleads, handing you the paper towel, and you have to take a deep breath before reluctantly accepting it. You eye the island, deliberating about whether you can safely reach across, but you know it’s too wide for you in your current state. So, you stand, then circle around the island, eyes fixed on the paper towel in your hand as you step into her space, releasing a steadying breath before lifting the paper towel to dab at the flour on her nose.

“There,” you say, as your eyes connect, and the moment is so charged for you that you swallow noticeably hard before flashing an awkward smile and fleeing back to your side of the island. You think you hear her mutter a thank you, but frankly, it’s hard to be sure over the hammering of your heart.

Back on your stool, the faint sound of a warm, sizzling skillet lets your subconcious know you can relax, so you do, letting yourself freely wonder how simply being in her space can illicit such a response – how she can still reduce you to the bashful, stuttering mess you were when you were kids. _It wasn’t always like this_ , you think, because it wasn’t. High school freshman Clarke was a disaster, sure, but college freshman Clarke had an air of confidence about her that couldn’t be so easily dismantled by something as small as proximity.

“Clarke?” you hear her say, and you blink, eyes widening when you realize there’s a plate of drunk pancakes in front of you and you didn’t even see her slide them in front of you.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

“Are you feeling okay? If you aren’t feeling well, I can pack these up for you,” she says, eyeing you with concern.

“Oh, no, I… I’m okay,” you say. “I just –”

“Are you sure, because I –” she speaks at the same time, smiling at you as you both quiet in understanding.

“Sometimes I space out,” you say after a beat.

“I recall,” she replies, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

“Right. Well, thankfully, there’s nothing more grounding than drunk pancakes.”

“So, you’ll stay?” she asks.

“For the pancakes,” you say, smirking. And with how awkward you’ve been already, it’s probably not the wisest of things to say, but you’re exhausted from being drunk and from constantly second-guessing yourself in her presence, so you think, _to hell with it_.

“Pancakes that are going to get warm if you don’t get started,” she points out, and you nod, picking up your fork and cutting through the short stack before bringing a bite to your mouth.

“Oh my god,” you groan through a full mouth of the best pancakes you’ve ever tasted. “Did these get better?”

“I continue to improve the recipe over time,” she comments with a smirk, and you roll your eyes. “Don’t you know it’s been nine years?”

And oh, do you.

“Has it really been that long?” you retort with a smirk of your own, cutting your pancakes into small triangles in preparation of shoving them into your mouth, manners be damned.

“Mm hmm,” she hums. “And as it turns out, a lot of things can change in nine years.”

“Wike yore panke rezipe?” you ask, watching as a grin breaks out across her face.

“That’s one, yes,” she says, “But I suppose some things stay the same, too.”

“Oh yeah? Like?” you question after swallowing.

“Your manners,” she says, laughing.

“That’s fair,” you admit, “But I’ve been dreaming about these pancakes for nine years, so you should probably cut me some slack, commander.”

“If I must. Though, I will say that I’m surprised they’re not gone completely yet. Good on you for pacing yourself, at least with the pancakes, that is…”

“Ha ha ha, you’re so funny. Yes, I’m drunk, okay?”

“That’s been established, but I appreciate the confession.”

“So, it’s a confession, huh?” you bait.

“It sure sounds like it,” she says, and you think if you could see yourself right now, your eyes would be sparkling with mischief having successfully set up your next move.

“Then I believe you owe me a confession,” you say, a big smile stretching across your cheeks as you watch her face contort with the realization that you bested her.

“That’s not… You can’t –” she sputters.

“Grounder rule 113… isn’t it something like, ‘any confession given warrants a confession in return?’”

“Yeah, but –”

“But what?”

“You’re not a grounder…” she surmises, and it’s true. But it doesn’t matter.

“Oh, so you don’t owe me a confession? Because if I remember correctly, I don’t have to be a grounder to call grounder rules,” you challenge, feigning innocence as you enjoy every minute of this much-needed win. The Clarke from a half-hour ago would be shocked at this turn of events.

“I can’t believe you remember rule 113,” she huffs. “Are there any other grounder rules you remember?”

“I’m sure we’ll find out in time,” you say. “Now, out with it, commander.”

“Fine…” she sighs, bringing a bite of pancake to her mouth. She thinks while she chews, and when she opens her mouth again, you squeeze the edge of your stool in anticipation.

“I miss being a kid sometimes,” she says quietly, eyes fixed on her lap. “Before my parents’ car accident, when we’d visit the Blakes because my mom missed her sister, and I wasn’t an obligation.”

She doesn’t even finish her sentence – you don’t even hear the word ‘obligation’ – before stretching your hand across the table to grab hold of hers.

“You’ve never been an obligation to anyone, Lex. Some part of you must know that,” you say, but your voice isn’t as gentle as you worry it should be. It sounds too insistent, you think, like you’re dismissing her feelings. “I don’t mean –”

“It’s okay, Clarke,” she cuts you off, squeezing your hand in reassurance. “I know what you mean. I know the Blakes love me. How could they not when they showed up for me on day one? I just, sometimes I feel like I belong to two different worlds, you know? The worst part is, I don’t feel like I fit into either of them. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if my parents had survived, if we kept summering with the Blakes, and all I had to worry about was punching Bellamy whenever he’d get mad at the blonde neighborhood girl following us around.”  
  
“He really didn’t like me then,” you say, attempting a soft smile while scrunching your nose.  
  
“Well, we _were_ thirteen…”

“So?”

“He was a thirteen-year-old boy who was worried about being seen with a ten-year-old. Most thirteen-year-olds are too cool for that, Clarke.”

“Yeah, but he was seen with Octavia all the time.”

“Octavia’s presence he could justify. He could blame his mom if he needed to.”

 You want to say, ‘well, you were never too cool to be seen with me,’ but for whatever reason, you decide against it, instead settling for, “He’s such an ass.”  
  
“You dated him,” she hums through an unreadable expression. Meanwhile, you think your eyes might be bulging out of your head at the sheer ridiculousness of her statement.  
  
“What?! For your information, I have never and will never date Bellamy Blake...” you inform her. “Where did you even come up with that?”  
  
“I overheard O. mention something about Bell dating one of her best friends at a family reunion a couple of years ago,” she says. “I guess I just assumed it was you.”  
  
“Wow,” you say, shocked to find out that Raven and Bellamy may have once been a thing. You shake your head, deciding to circle back to that information tomorrow should you remember it, then refocus your effort. “Why would you think it was me?”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know... maybe your historical attraction to floppy-haired pretty boys?”  
  
You scoff, and you want to deny it, but the devious spark in her eye tells you that there’s no use. “Ugh... fine. I admit it, teen Clarke loved shaggy-haired fuckboys. Thankfully, adult Clarke isn’t so easily fooled.”  
  
“Cheers to personal growth,” she says playfully, reaching out to ding her glass of water to yours.  
  
“For the record, I only dated Finn...” you defend after taking a small sip of water.  
  
“Only Finn?”  
  
“... and Devon, Scott, Thom, and Eric... Eric?”  
  
“Aaron.”  
  
“Aaron,” you correct, with a flustered sigh, “because the source of my affection was so far out of my league that I knew I’d never have a chance. Didn’t stop me from hoping, though.”  
  
“Oh, please, Clarke. No one is out of your league.”  
  
“You’re kidding, right? Do you remember fifteen-year-old Clarke? Braces and baggy clothing and that awful bob?”  
  
“Of course I remember fifteen-year-old Clarke. Fifteen-year-old Clarke was utterly adorable.”  
  
“My point exactly! It took my entire junior year to reinvent myself to the point where boys would look at me. I didn’t even have my first kiss until I was sixteen.”  
  
“I seem to recall otherwise...” she says with a smile, and you scoff again.  
  
“Doesn’t count. Kissing the corner of my mouth out of pity at Gina’s party during spin the bottle the night before you left for college, doesn’t count. I had to wait a-whole-nother year, and ended up giving my kissing V. to Jasper, who was just as desperate as I was.”  
  
“And so began the floppy-haired boy compulsion.”  
  
“Not by choice!”  
  
“Kind of by choice...”  
  
“Ugh, I forgot how annoying you are,” you sigh, exasperatedly.  
  
“And I forgot how much fun it is to tease you.”  
  
You roll your eyes, then stand up to clear your plate. When you round the island and reach for hers, she grabs your wrist.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asks.

“Ah, ah, ah,” you tsk. “Pick your battles,” you warn, and she rolls her eyes before releasing your wrist.

“You’re as stubborn as ever, I see. I can’t believe it’s been nine years,” she says, watching you as you load the plates into the dishwasher. You close the dishwasher, and take a second to regard her before forming your response.  
  
“I can,” you breathe through a grin, “that crease line between your brow is comfortable in its permanence.”  
  
“Hey, now - there are certain lines we never cross as friends, and that is one of them... but since you started it,” she reaches atop your head and pulls a strand of your hair out, and you wince, “have you noticed you’ve got gray coming in?”  
  
“Oh my god, no!” you exclaim, because you’re twenty-seven-years-old and this is the first you’ve seen of it.  
  
“Relax, Clarke,” she says through a barely suppressed chuckle. “The best has yet to come.”  
  
“Of course you’d say that, you’ve got to tell yourself that. I mean, what else have you got to look forward to? You’re thirty!”  
  
You both collapse into a fit of giggles and it warms your heart. Being back here, in her space, in her life – it’s nearly everything you’ve been missing in yours.  
  
“I missed you, ya know?” you say. It comes as a surprise to you as the words fall out of your mouth without cognizant thought. Lexa looks surprised, too. Her brows are raised, and she releases a long breath before delivering her reply.  
  
“I’ve missed you, too, Clarke.”  
  
“Why did you wait so long to come home?” you ask, because you’re curious.  
  
“It’s... complicated.”  
  
“Heda empire-related?”  
  
“Among other things.”  
  
“You’re not going to tell me?” you ask, though you already know her answer.  
  
“Timing is everything, Clarke.”  
  
“How boring!” you pout. “You know that it’s boring, right?”  
  
“I don’t know how anyone puts up with you,” she retorts, barely hiding her amusement.  
  
“Why put up with me, when they could put out for me?” you say, wagging your eyebrows.  
  
“Oh god, don’t remind me,” she pleads, raising her hands to cover her face.  
  
“You’re just jealous that I got more action in the first quarter of my freshman year of college than you did your whole college career.”  
  
“Jealous? I... I wasn’t jealous. I’m not… being in a committed relationship has its perks.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sure Costia gave you plenty of perks. But imagine getting those perks from all different kinds of people. Those perks were diverse.”  
  
“I’m sure they were,” she says, offering a tight grin before walking to her couch and plopping down. You stand there, worrying that maybe you’ve taken it too far. You’re about to thank her for the pancakes and excuse yourself when you see her glance over her shoulder.

“Clarke,” she says, and you look at her wide eyes. “C’mon,” she beckons you, and your brow furrows in confusion. “After drunk pancakes, we watch Wayne’s World,” she explains, reminding you of past traditions without you having to ask, and it takes a quarter of a second for you to waltz across her hardwood before you leap onto her couch and settle into your rightful spot next to her.

At some point during the movie, you drift closer to her until your head eventually falls into her lap. You look up at her with curious eyes to gauge her response, and when she looks down at you and offers one of the sweetest smiles you’ve ever seen, your heart stutters, and you can’t help but say something – can’t help but tell her…

“Lex,” you say through a yawn, feeling a new kind of peace settle into your bones. She looks at you with unrestrained softness, and you sigh, snuggling in closer as you admit, “you’ll always fit with me.”

When your body succumbs to sleep a moment later, you don’t feel the blanket that’s pulled atop you, or the gentle press of warm, pouty lips to your forehead.

But you sigh happily anyway.


	3. Spring Fling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke dreams she's back in high school before waking up on Lexa's couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! To those of you anticipating this chapter, I apologize for the delay. I really struggled with how to start this chapter and where to go with it. So, fair warning - here comes the angst (I've never written the f-word so much in my life). That said, I don't intend on this getting too heavy, but Clarke has been numbing her emotions for so long and she needs to break apart. This will likely be the heaviest chapter. Oh, and I barely proofed it, so it could be a mess. Peep that sn tho.
> 
> In other news, this is definitely not going to be finished in five chapters. I'm not going to change it yet, but I think there will be at least 3 - 4 more.
> 
> As always, thank you for the comments and kudos, and please let me know what you think.

You’re in high school.

Or, well – you’re dreaming you’re in high school.

You don’t typically have dreams where you’re so self-aware, yet no matter how realistic it feels to be back inside these walls, there are too many things that are slightly off for this to be your reality; for instance, you’re wearing a Hello Kitty shirt – puke – and heels that aren’t even in style yet. Fifteen-year-old Clarke would not be caught dead in either. Especially the heels. But also, especially the fucking Hello Kitty shirt.

You sigh as you lean into your freshman locker and wonder why the hell your subconscious would bring you back to a place you had so deeply detested the first time around. Really, it’s unfathomable – of all the places and all the times, why this one?

When the bell dings, you blink in quick succession in hopes of facilitating your own escape from this fun-house version of your own personal hell, then clinch your jaw in frustration when you realize your efforts are futile. The overwhelming sense of disappointment has you so distracted that you don’t even notice a young Octavia sauntering up to her locker next to yours.

“Wow, that’s a face. Rough day?” she asks, and you look at her side-eyed as if she’s serious.

“Obviously,” you mumble. “This place fucking sucks.” You cringe at the tenor in your own voice – you even sound like you’re fifteen. So, the fucking Hello Kitty shirt wasn’t enough?

“Language, Clarke!” Octavia exclaims, eyes widening as she nudges you with her elbow, and you have to try desperately hard not to roll your eyes at her, and more specifically, at this version of her. You’re not totally sure what month it is, but the no cursing thing must mean that it’s during Octavia’s brief relationship with the ‘conservative’ fuckboy Otto Stone.

“Right… Sorry,” you concede, though you’re not really sure why you feel the need to apologize. If this is a dream, how much does it actually matter? You suppose that your reaction is muscle memory, habitual in its ease after years of friendship.

“It’s cool,” she replies as she taps her shoulder to yours then turns to lean against her locker in the same manner that you are. “So, are you still refusing to go to the Spring Fling because of Lexa?” she asks, and you haven’t thought about it in so long that you’re taken off guard. You hadn’t realized that it’s _this_ day.

You open your mouth to reply but just as you’re about to say the first thing that comes to mind, you see your peers suddenly parting the hallway to make room for the only group of students who could illicit such a response, then resign yourself to speechlessness.

Grounders.

To say they are a secret society would be a bit much – in all honestly, they’re a group of friends that live by a set of secret rules made up by Lexa, Bellamy, Lincoln, and Anya when they were kids, and you’ve been itching to get ahold of the complete list ever since. In current, real-time, you’ve uncovered a few, and your curiosity has even lead you to beg Octavia to clue you in after her induction on the night Lexa left for college. You’re pretty sure if she tells you she’ll be breaking one of the rules, so you don’t push too hard. But, yeah, of course you still ask. That’s probably why you’ll never be inducted – you’re simply not stoic enough.

In this time, there are eight of them. They are all incredibly smart, athletic, and effortlessly cool, and as such, can pretty much have their pick of anyone in school. (And in the real, adult world that you so dearly miss and would love to get back to, as well, _if any goddesses are listening_.)

The first one you see coming is Lincoln. He’s hard to miss because of his size. The guy has always been ripped – even in high school – and his muscles are particularly enticing when he’s flexing the slightest bit, like when he’s got his arm curled around his books. Though Lincoln is near impossible to read, you’ve picked up on little things over the years and as the first one to have realized his huge heart-boner for Octavia, you are quite familiar with the look on his face as he and the others make their way closer to you and your best friend. His subtle admiration of her is detached and hesitant, and you really can’t blame him for being so cautious – Bellamy would have tried to rip Lincoln apart had he asked Octavia out before she graduated college. You chance a glance at Octavia and smirk when you see she’s not even paying attention, but rather, playing Snake on her throwback Nokia cellular phone. Typical.

The next three form a line slightly behind Lincoln. Bellamy’s token shaggy-hair bounces in step as he gestures animatedly to Gustus. You presume they’re talking about sports, if Luna’s glazed-over eyes has anything to do with it. The girl wouldn’t be caught dead on a field or a track – she’s a fighter. Gustus, on the other hand – the largest of all of them – is a big teddy bear, sweet as can be. You smile, knowing how opposites attract, knowing Gus and Luna’s fate: a five-bedroom house with two-car garage just outside Portland; weekends spent hiking, camping, and teaching their three little ones to fish.

The group continues toward you and you have to will yourself to take a breath in anticipation. You see Anya’s sludge-green hair peek out from behind Gustus’ large frame and almost laugh out loud at her incredibly endearing, outward display of teenage rebellion.

Of course, the moment turns out to be short-lived when the next person you see turns out to be Costia. You close your eyes and take a long exhale. You fucking hate Costia.

(You don’t hate Costia, nor do you _fucking_ hate Costia. You can’t hate her – you’ve tried. You’ve tried to hate her for her natural beauty and her bangin’ gymnast body. You’ve tried to hate her for being such a genuinely nice person – for someone who has looked out for you without you wanting her to. You’ve tried to hate her for her intelligence and wisdom and put-togetherness. You’ve even tried to hate her for volunteer work.

Most obviously, you’ve tried to hate her for being Lexa’s first love, and on-and-off-again girlfriend, and soulmate.

But Lexa loves her and always has loved her and you can’t fucking hate her because outside of Lexa, she’s the best fucking person you’ve ever met.

And while you don’t hate her, you can’t help but break to pieces at the mere sight of her.

You open your eyes, furrowing your eyebrows together as your vision blurs. You watch her fingers interlace with a hand that belongs to the familiar goddess-like body behind her, tears threatening to spill from your blue eyes as the woman you’ve loved since you were ten-years-old comes into view.

She is agonizingly gorgeous and timelessly stylish, and you don’t know how everyone isn’t in love with her. (To be honest, you’re not sure you believe anyone who claims such a thing. Everyone is probably just smarter than you, realizing how impossible it would be to compete with Costia.)

You grit your teeth as you continue to stare, nearly wincing when you see Lexa lean in to place a sweet kiss on Costia’s left cheek. Even worse, you know that Lexa’s green eyes are shining with an insurmountable love, even without getting a good look.

You close your eyes again, hoping they’ll pass you by before you open them again.

“Hey Clarke,” you hear, breathing a sigh of relief at the voice you weren’t expecting. You didn’t even notice Niylah – she must have been behind Lexa and Costia. You open your watery eyes and force a smile. If it were anyone else you wouldn’t even care, but Niylah is special to you.

“I’m here,” she says, and you nod, knowing she means it. Octavia looks up from her phone and raises her eyebrows at you, and you wave her off. She doesn’t know that you and Niylah are friends, not in the past or in real-time.

“Thanks,” you mutter, forcing another smile as she squeezes your arm; however, the gesture provides a comfort that is all too quick to leave at the first noise of Lexa clearing her throat, somehow having silent snuck up behind Niylah without either of you noticing. You close your eyes again, squeezing them together tightly as you renew your dedication to your escape efforts.

“Hey Niy, O… can I have a minute with Clarke?” you hear Lexa say, voice strong and smooth with confidence.

With another squeeze of your arm, Niylah leaves without a word. You open your eyes to watch her go, then turn your attention to Octavia, boring your eyes into hers as a silent plea for help. You know she sees it, but she doesn’t seem to want to help.

“Sure, cuz,” she says, shrugging at you as she backs away, and you want to give her the finger.

“Clarke,” Lexa says. You still haven’t looked at her and you know it’s killing her. “Would you please look at me?” _There it is_ , you think, and you’re totally prepared to ride this out as long as possible, but unfortunately it takes only a few seconds before you’re unwillingly locking eyes with hers.

(You’re the worst. No control, seriously.)

“Thank you,” she breathes, a sigh of relief exiting her (exquisite) mouth.

“For looking at you or for letting you use me?” you spit, and when you see her eyebrows shoot up in surprise you wonder if yours do the same. You’ve never spoken to her like this, never wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I wouldn’t have asked you to Spring Fling had I known Costia and I were going to get back together.”

“Wow,” you seethe. “I guess I mean even less than I thought.”

“Clarke,” she chastises, and you answer with a pointed glare. “You know that’s not true. You’re a great friend.”

“A friend,” you repeat, hoping she doesn’t hear the sadness in your voice. It didn’t go like this the first time – in real life. She said sorry and offered to take you to get ice cream over the weekend and you jumped at the chance to spend one-on-one time with her. Somehow, part of you knew that you’d never get to go to that dance with her. Not even in your dreams, apparently.

“A friend,” she echoes, and you feel something inside you snap at hearing her confirm what you’ve always known, and for the first time in years, you let yourself unravel.

“Fuck you,” you say with a new energy buzzing through you, and when you’re suddenly no longer in the school hallway, but instead, in your teenage room, you take it as encouragement to come completely undone. She blinks, but doesn’t move, doesn’t even notice the change in setting.

“Fuck you! Fuck you for asking me to a dance you had no intention of taking me to!” you yell. “Fuck you! Fuck you for… for being so goddamn protective of me, and for treating me like a child, and for being so fucking reserved! Fuck you! Fuck you for always choosing Costia! Fuck you…” you spit, moving closer to her. “For never realizing…” you trail off, raising your arms to her chest. Your hair is longer now, and the Hello Kitty shirt has been replaced by the blue dress you wore to her college graduation. You blink, vaguely aware of the tears that streak down your cheeks. “For never…” you continue, your balled fists reaching out until she grabs hold of your wrists. “Fuck you,” you choke out, so utterly exhausted that you don’t care to finish.

“Clarke,” she says, but her mouth doesn’t move.

“Clarke,” she says again, and you blink when her mouth still doesn’t move.

“Clarke,” she says once more, only her voice doesn’t sound like her voice anymore. It sounds like…

“Clarke!”

You blink awake, slowly, the room coming into focus as your eyes adjust. Of course, the first thing you notice is that wherever you are – you’re not in your apartment.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a person say ‘fuck’ so much,” you hear, jerking your head to peer to around the room. “And that’s coming from me.”

“Octavia?” you ask, confused. “Where… where are we?” You sit up, looking around the room as she sips on a mug of what you hope is coffee.

“Lexa’s,” she says, and your eyes must go wide, because next thing you know, she’s moving towards you. “Relax. You ran into her in the hallway last night and she invited you over for food. You fell asleep during a movie and she didn’t want to wake you,” she hums, watching you. “She’s in the shower now.”

You furrow your eyebrows together as you try desperately to make sense of what Octavia is saying, but your head feels that familiar morning haze, worsened by an intense dream you can’t seem to recall. After a few minutes of processing, you realize that you feel blind-sighted by the fact that Lexa is here and you hadn’t known – that Octavia hadn’t told you. When anger starts to bubble in your belly, you release a long sigh in an attempt to calm yourself down, though you know you’re not going to be able to let this go.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, standing from the couch.

“Tell you what?”

“That Lexa’s moving here! That she’s moved here!” you whisper-yell. You hear the shower going, but you can still hear plenty from yours and you don’t want her to hear this conversation. You probably already made enough of a fool of yourself last night.

“Uhhh,” Octavia drawls, looking at you with an eyebrow raised in question. “Lexa told you she was moving here when we ran into you at the coffee shop.” When you glare at her a second later, she adds, “Didn’t she?” but it isn’t a question. Octavia knows Lexa told you.

“Yeah, she did… but you haven’t teased me about it at all!” you reply, and hearing yourself and your argument makes you cringe.

She looks at you incredulously, and though you’re not going to tell her this – you really can’t blame her. “So, let me get this _straight_ ,” she says, pausing for effect. “You’re mad that I haven’t teased you about my cousin?”

“Yes,” you say, poise waning. What the fuck are you doing?

“You hate it when I tease you,” she says, waiting a beat for your reply. When it doesn’t come, she narrows her eyes at you. “You especially hate it when I tease you about _Clexa_.”

“Shut up!” you yell, and it’s out of your mouth before you can stop it. Fucking Octavia.

“See?” she tilts her head and smirks at you through a veil of self-righteousness that is nowhere near as endearing as her cousin’s, and you can’t help but scoff. “I mean, shouldn’t you be happy about it, Clarke?”

“No!” you exclaim, looking away from her as you start to round the couch to make your way to the door. “I… you can’t just stop teasing me out of the blue like that, Octavia. I’m used to it, okay?”

“Clarke,” she says, and you spin around to look at her.

“I’m serious, Octavia! How am I supposed to –”

“Clarke!” she yells over you. “What’s this really about?”

“It’s about… being thrown off by your peculiar behavior,” you say, but you know it’s not your best work.

“No, it’s not,” she replies, pursing her lips together in sassy disagreement.

“Oh?” you question, frustrated. “Well, if you’ve got all the answers then why don’t you enlighten me?” you sass back.

She glares at you with barely constrained contempt, and you swallow. You’re too hungover for this, so you decide to concede before this goes too far. Best approach? Play dumb.

“What?” you ask, innocently.

“You know what, Clarke.”

“No, I don’t,” you lie.

“It’s okay to be spooked,” she says, voice light but firm.

You scowl. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

She sighs, then places her coffee mug on the table before walking over to where you’re hoovering by the door, taking your shoulders in your hands as she looks you in the eye. You wonder if you look as terrified as you suddenly feel.

“Clarke,” she coos so gently that it’s nearly a whisper. “Your childhood crush returns home after nearly a decade of separation…” she begins, and you find yourself jerking away.

“No,” you tell her. “I’m not that pathetic girl anymore, so if you’re thinking I’m affected by her return…”

“Clarke…” she says, trailing off as you both hear the shower stop.

“No!” you whisper. “I’m not spooked – I’m hungover. I’m overwhelmed by running into someone from my past in my own apartment building. How did she even know about this place, Octavia? It’s a hidden fucking gem,” you say, watching her face for anything other than that token Blake-Woods stoicism to see if she’s responsible for your predicament. If she had anything to do with it, she doesn’t show herself, and you find yourself sighing in defeat before wrapping it up. You move to the door and grab the door knob, twisting as you tell her, “You know what? It doesn’t matter.”

(It does matter, though. You know you’re affected, but you’ve got this feeling – it’s almost like you’re a leaky faucet about to burst, or a ball of yarn about to come unraveled. It’s like the thick, practiced haze of your head is about to be cut with something you haven’t felt for so long and you can’t stop it.)

You try to push it down as you open the door, but when you feel the vibration of a knock against the other side of the door, you look back to Octavia in confusion before turning back to see who it is, and the mere sight of her nearly breaks you to pieces.

(If there had been a way to avoid spilling, to contain yourself – it’s dust now.)

She smiles as you warmly, makes some comment about how it’s funny running into you here, but you can’t react sensibly.

“I have to go,” you say, charging past her.

“Hangover,” you hear Octavia tell her, and you vaguely register the sound of worry in her voice as you rush down the hall to your apartment.

You frantically search your pockets for your keys, and when you finally make it inside you collapse against the door, your body sliding down to settle atop the hardwood floor as you try your best to delay the impending storm due to hit at any moment.

And when you hear Lexa exclaim, you burst open – wide open – for the first time since your dad died.

“Costia!” she says, her voice laced with a happiness that is so clear despite being muffled by the multiple walls that separate the two of you.

And for some reason, all you can think is _fuck you_.


	4. The Greatest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke realizes she's been quarantining her heart from her head; she copes, and grows, and makes a decision about having Lexa in her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> I might be slow to get chapters out, but I promise you that I fully intend on finishing this story. There are likely to be 1 - 3 more updates. This was a longer one because I didn't want to break it up into two shorter chapters. Hope you like it!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has commented or given kudos! Obviously, it's great to get feedback and fives, but it also keeps me motivated, knowing that people are looking forward to the coming chapters. So, if you feel compelled, please let me know what you think.
> 
> Note: barely proofed, no beta. Duh.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Hi Raven,” you say without turning around and breaking concentration from the painting you’ve been working on for the last four days. “Yes, please, let yourself into my studio. There’s wine in the kitchen if you’d like to help yourself to that, too.”

You take a moment to allow for her usual quip-snarky response, but when it doesn’t come, your fingers still and you release a heavy sigh before turning around.

She glares through you, waiting, until finally: “Answer the question, Clarke.”

“I’ve been here,” you say, unfazed.

“Clearly,” she spits, hands planted firmly on her hips as she looks around the space that is scattered with your day-to-day belongings. “You’ve been sleeping here?”

Of course you have. Who wouldn’t? You’re one of the lucky artists who can afford multiple spaces, both of which have everything you need to survive. This space is an efficiency in a cheaper neighborhood, but you’ve got room for the entirety of your art supplies and you’ve got a bathroom and kitchen. Plus, the built-in Murphy Bed kind of makes it a no-brainer. You don’t need to respond – your suitcase does it for you. So, you spin around and grab your paintbrush once again.

“Clarke, you haven’t answered any of your calls or texts in over a week. Octavia, Abby, myself… we’ve all been worried sick.”

You’re about to touch brush to canvas, but the concern in Raven’s voice stills you once more. You hesitate, but you’ve come far in the last week, and even if you can’t shake the uncertainty you can overcome it, so you place your paintbrush back down, then spin your stool around to connect with your worried friend again, this time more genuinely.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I’ve been coping…”

Raven looks at you, brows furrowed in confusion. “Is this about Lexa?” she asks.

“No,” you state, all too quickly, and when she raises her brows in question, you correct yourself. “Not really…”

“Clarke,” she exasperates, because she knows you too well.

“Okay, okay,” you say. “Sort of.”

“Octavia said that you woke up on Lexa’s couch after we went out and then kind of freaked and bolted.”

You scoff. “I didn’t… freak.”

“Not even a little?” she asks, knowingly.

“Okay, fine. I freaked…” you admit, and it surprises you, but you’ve had nearly two weeks of non-stop epiphanies so maybe it shouldn’t. “Happy?”

“Confused, mostly,” she replies, moving closer to you. “I was never around for Lexa, and I heard stories, but I never thought you’d be so…”

“Wrecked?”

“Yeah, that –  when you saw her again...”

“It’s not just Lexa. Hell, a week ago I would have said it has nothing to do with Lexa,” you drone, losing yourself in your thoughts.

“Then, what else?” Raven asks as she bends down in front of you to catch your gaze.

You look at her quickly, then look away. “My dad…” you say. “I never mourned him properly. I just –”

“Locked up your emotions and threw away the key?” Raven asks, and you nod, thankful for the assist. “And now that Lexa’s back…”

“She’s penetrated me,” you finish.

“Clarke,” Raven says, chuckling, “maybe say that in a different way?”

Your eyes shoot up and you realize the insinuation, then swat at her. “Not like that!”

“Obviously,” she giggles. “If that were the case, maybe you wouldn’t be so broody.”

“Very funny. Laugh it up,” you say through a barely, if at all, repressed smile. “I think I forgot about her effect on me. And all that other unresolved garbage.”

“Do go on…” Raven mutters, and you look at her with an arched brow. “Please, tell me more about this ‘unresolved garbage.’”

“Are you sure?” you ask. “Because you’ve never seen emotional Clarke, and she’s pretty messy.”

“I love Clarke in all iterations, and let’s not forget that I’m a garbage kind of gal. So, hit me sister.”

You nod, releasing a long sigh to ready yourself.

“Okay, well… you know Lexa moved in with the Blakes after her parents’ accident, and you know my family lived next to the Blakes, so we kind of grew up together… and you know…”

“I know that she was your first kiss, but you don’t count it because you think she kissed you out of pity…”

“She did,” you mutter, as Raven rolls her eyes and sends you a pointed glare.

“I know that you loved her the moment you saw her, at the romantically-woke age of ten,” she says through a wavering smile. “I know that you never felt good enough or old enough to pursue her – that you never thought you had a chance. I know that most of the bad romantic and sexual decisions you’ve made have almost always been as a result of thinking you’ll never have her in that way. I know that it was you who comforted her when her parents died, and I know that, while you’ve never said it out loud, you resent her for not showing up to support you when you lost your dad…” Raven continues, her smile faded into a version more pained, and you want to laugh out loud at the fact that she’s uncovered most of the baggage you’ve been discovering over the last twelve days in two-measly-minutes.

“You know, you could have clued me in,” you point out, faintly aware of the moisture gathering at your water line.

Raven regards you for a moment, taking you in as she purses her lips together. “Yeah… well, maybe I would have if you’d had answered any of my calls or texts,” she states, and you laugh out loud for the first time since the night you spent with Lexa.

At Lexa’s. You spent the night _At. Lexa’s._

“Touché,” you offer, raising your hands in surrender.

“Keep going,” Raven encourages, and you nod.

“So, I, um – I kind of broke down for the first time since my dad died. Some part of me knew that Lexa had a part in it, but at first, I was sure it was just about bottling up all the heavy emotions I had since his funeral. So… I went to visit his grave. I told him everything about my life: about how I didn’t go to med school, about how I followed my heart – well, in terms of my career – about how I got lucky, that even though I haven’t painted anything worthwhile in years, that I’ve made a decent living from commissioned illustrations. I told him about you, and about Octavia and Lincoln… and mom… and Marcus…” you sigh. “Eventually, though, during this hours-long conversation with my father’s headstone, the topic drifted… I told him Lexa’s back, and I’m not really sure how I feel about it; that it’s one thing to have her back in the same city, and another to have her back in such close proximity. I apologized… that she didn’t show up for him, when he loved her almost as much as I did, and vice versa…”

“What did he say?” Raven asks through a poorly restrained smile, and you swat at her again as you chuckle aloud. “No, but really – how do you feel?”

“Lighter,” you breathe. “Like, maybe I’m not in the clear, but…”

“But?”

“I think that maybe I’ve been quarantining my heart,” you say, cringing at the cheesiness. “Like, maybe my head has had free-reign. And now, Lexa is back and she’s disturbed that, and it’s great. Honestly, it’s almost like a blessing in disguise. I’m painting again. For the first time in years. Painting! But, I know I’m not yet out of the…” you stop yourself, teeth biting into your lower lip as you realize your mistake.

Raven stares at you, excitement nearly unconstrained, waiting... just drawing it out to torture you. “Woods?” she asks, finally relenting. “But, haven’t we discussed this? If you’d gotten into the Woods to begin with…”

And you consider tackling her because clearly the swatting isn’t working, but when you start to stand up…

“No, no, no,” Raven yells, body lifting and bracing for a disaster. “You’re painting again! Do not ruin this brilliant masterpiece, the subject of which… is absolutely unfamiliar.”

“Then you need to cool it, sister,” you warn with a pointed finger, as you settle back down onto your stool.

“Yes, so fair of you, my Queen. Thank you for your mercy, my Queen…”

“Anyway… Maybe I’m not totally done with this.”

“This?”

“With… with, uh…”

“With… Lexa?” Raven retorts through her raised brow, and you sigh again. Because fuck.

“Maybe,” you admit.

“Did you call up any scummy fuckbros for a crummy one-night stand?” she asks, and when you glare at her pointedly without a word, she laughs. “Griff! When will you learn?!”

“I don’t know! I just, I needed to get my head on… _straight_ is not the right word, but you get it! So, I called up an old fuck buddy and yeah, the sex was mediocre, but…”

“But worth it?”

“Well, Greg is a nice guy, but I wouldn’t say that,” you confess, and the two of you burst into a fit of giggles.

“So, you’re going to ask Lexa out, then?” Raven replies, and when it registers, your eyes nearly bug out of your head.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa – how did you get me asking Lexa out from no-strings-attached, disappointing, hetero sex?” you ask, and when she tilts her head at you, conveying that yeah, it’s actually a fairly easy connection to make, you groan. “Okay, you got me, but that’s not going to happen.”

“Why the fuck not?” Raven nearly yells as she starts to pace back and forth along your art space.

“For starters, there’s a lot of feelings,” you say, and when Raven opens her mouth, you raise your finger to let her know you have the floor. “And not all of them are the good kind.”

“But most of them are,” she says, matter-of-factly.

“Doesn’t matter,” you reply.

“What if you got your wires crossed, Clarke? Maybe you should talk to her about the not-so-good kind of feelings.”

“Absolutely not, Rae.”

“Again, why the fuck not?” Raven spits, voice raised slightly in what you assume is frustration.

“Because she’s not into me!” you yell back, and when you see her face falling, you take a calculated breath and a proverbial step backward, then repeat yourself at a more acceptable volume. “She’s not into me, Rae. She’s never been into me. I’m the little girl who used to follow her around... I’m not Costia.”

“Clarke,” Raven whispers as she looks at you incredulously. “I don’t know Costia. And I only know about Lexa from everything that you and Octavia have told me. You know, maybe Lexa is Costia’s soulmate… but from everything I’ve heard over the years, it sounds like that girl,” she pauses, then continues a new route, “you’re beautiful, which is honestly your most boring quality. You’re so intelligent, and funny, and deliberate, and warm, and it all comes out in your art, even in your illustrations. You have made some bad decisions in the past, but you’re ultimately stronger because of them. You grow, even when you shut parts of yourself off. You were there for me after my accident, when we were only _kind of_ friends for a few days prior, but you showed up for me regardless of that, and you continued showing up for me, and you still show up for me. I kept pinching myself, wondering when this random girl who wouldn’t not let us be friends would go away, but you never did. And do you know why that is?” she asks, taking your tear-streaked face into her hands after wiping at the moisture from her own. “Because you have the best heart, the truest heart, and me being a genius and all, I can kind of calculate the odds of Lexa Woods being ignorant and impenetrable of that, and I’m pretty sure she’s as weak to your charms as all of us other mortal beings.”

“Rae,” you rasp, but it comes out more like a sob, and when she replies by throwing her arms around you, you sink into them gratefully.

“It’s okay to break down, Clarke. I’ll be here to keep you safe every time, but you’ve got to let me, okay?” she says, and you nod against her shoulder. “You need to call your mom and Octavia, and maybe you should talk to Lexa, really.”

“I don’t think I’m ready,” you mumble into her shoulder. “To talk to Lexa, like that,” you clarify. “I’m not entirely convinced.”

“Well, why did she come back then?” she asks, and you pull away to look at her with your brow arched in question.

“She missed her cousins,” you state, wiping at your face, and Raven laughs.

“Bullshit,” she says with total conviction. “Why did she move away in the first place, again? Oh, right, because there was a clause in her parents’ will – to be Heda and run said parents’ company, she needed to reside at HQ. So, you tell me, would you give up control of a billion-dollar company to move back to DC because you missed your cousins?” she asks, and you’re dumbstruck. “Especially the Blakes,” she says, unaware of your internal turmoil. “Octavia is great, but Bellamy… eh, not so much,” she smiles, and you are completely oblivious to anything she’s saying. “Amiright?”

“Why would she move back?” you finally ask, confusion finally shining through.

“Exactly! Maybe you should ask her,” Raven offers, and you think she’s got a point.

You think maybe you should.

…

But as the weeks pass, you don’t ask her.

In fact, you try your best to avoid her, and despite Raven’s moving speech, you resolve that you are destined to remain in the friendzone and you will yourself to accept it. So, you take your space, but Lexa doesn’t make it easy.

_She’s everywhere._

She’s at your favorite bakery, and at the farmer’s market, and somehow, on _your_ favorite park bench. She shows up on your run route, and at your yoga class – which, _Shesus_ – and you even bump into her your usual brunch spot _multiple_ times.

When she shows up at your gallery on one of the most important nights of your professional life –  an exhibit featuring a few of your local heroes’ artworks on which you’d been working for months – you think something’s got to give.

And when she shows up at your apartment the night after, you’re sure the universe has it out for you.

“Lexa,” you say breathlessly after opening your door. You’ve been home for only a few minutes, so her timing is impeccable.

“Clarke,” she greets with a smile, and you stand there, perplexed, until she notices. “I brought you dinner,” she explains.

“Dinner?” you ask, confused. You wonder if your stomach has somehow learned to use your smartphone, or worse – if it’s learned to contact Siri, who in turn, texts the last person you’d want her to text to bring you food.

“You’ve been around less,” she says, and when you tilt your head to the left in further question, she elaborates. “You’ve been really busy and I was hoping that we could hang out, so I brought food, and uh, and a bottle of wine, and I…” she trails off, and your brow furrows together. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her like this – stammering, unsure. It’s really throwing you for a loop.

“You want to hang out?” you repeat as if the request is your own, and it occurs to you that while you’ve rarely seen her uncomfortable, that it’s always been second-nature to be so careful with her in these moments.

There’s a moment of silence that passes between the two of you, and then suddenly, her lips stretch across her beautiful face as she genuinely beams at you, and you wonder if you will ever truly be okay with being her friend; you wonder if you lie to yourself a million more times if it will ever be enough.

(You don’t think it ever will, but she’s in your life again, brilliant and gorgeous and unattainable, so you think it has to be enough –  because even if you never have her in all the ways you want her, having her in any capacity beats having her in none.

Your mind doesn’t think you could survive losing her again.

And when your heart skips a beat, you know it does so in agreement.)

“Come in,” you say, stepping aside and smiling at her with all the warmth you can muster, and honestly, it doesn’t take much.

“Thank you,” she says softly, as she steps across the threshold and into your apartment, walking towards your kitchen.

“No, thank you,” you drawl. “I’ve been spending almost all my time at the gallery so I don’t have a ton of food here, and I’m starving.” Your eyes follow the bag as you speak, and your mouth starts to water as she unpacks the food onto the island. When your stomach growls, she looks at you in amusement and smirks, and you just can’t deal with that right now.

“I like you,” she says, and you think nothing of it because you’re too focused on the food. “I hope you still like Chinese cuisine? I brought vegetable lo mein, and chicken with broccoli, and General Tso’s chicken, and spring rolls, and –”

“Yes to all of it,” you exclaim, cutting her off as you grab plates from the cupboard and move toward the chicken with broccoli. You faintly register the sound of her chuckling as you fill up your plate, then make way to your dining table.

“Wine?” she asks, and you nod, your mouth already full of food.

Sometime later, after you’ve finished your food and made it through your first glass of wine, you sigh contentedly, feeling as though a haze has cleared; however, it does occur to you that you’ve been sitting in silence or making minimal small talk for most of the time since Lexa arrived, and you worry that you haven’t been the best company. There’s an apology on the tip of your tongue as Lexa watches you from across the table, but then she reaches out and grabs your hand and smiles sweetly, and obviously, your head spins into chaos again in a matter of moments.

“Don’t apologize,” she says. “Don’t overthink.”

“I feel bad,” you admit, the welcome, comforting heat of her hand burning into your own. “You came to hang out…”

“And that’s what we’re doing,” she finishes for you.

“I’ve barely said a word,” you argue, and she squeezes your hand lightly in response as a show of support.

“And that’s okay, Clarke. You’ve been busy, and I’m happy to take what I can get,” she says softly, her green eyes shining as she looks at you tenderly.

“You make it sound like you’ve been waiting to hang out,” you say, jokingly, trying to ease the tension building in your lower back.

“I have,” she says, her brilliant smile growing larger. “A few weeks ago, after _‘Drunk Pancakes’_ night, I was knocking on your door nearly every night for a week or so. I was going to come to your exhibit either way, but I figured just by the amount of time you were spending away from home that the exhibit would certainly be incredible, and it was…”

You’re a little confused as you process what she’s saying and before you know it, you’re pulling your hand from hers and reaching for the bottle of wine to pour yourself another glass.

“Thank you?” you mutter, mind swirling with this new information. Lexa showed up at your apartment night after night when you were staying at your studio?

“You’re welcome. I’m glad I got to see it,” she breathes. “That one artist,” she trails off, standing to gather the plates from the table, and you watch her in question. “Greg, I think his name was…”

“Yeah, Greg,” you confirm, your eyebrow raising in tandem.

“He’s good. Talented,” she says, avoiding eye contact, and you wonder why the fuck she’s being so weird. You want to comment, but at the same time, it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, so you decide to let it go and instead turn your attention to the food scattered about the island.

“You do realize there’s enough food here to feed our entire friend group, right?” you point out, smirking as you move around the kitchen island to clean up, grazing against her in the tight space as she washes the dishes behind you.

“Well, I didn’t know if you’d have visitors. Greg seemed… chummy,” she replies, throwing you a look over her shoulder, and you nearly drop the box of food you’re trying to wrap up when your eyes snap to hers so hastily.

“He’s _is_ a friend,” you mutter, stilling as you pinch your brows together and spin around to look at her. This behavior reminds you of the way Lexa acted after you lost your virginity to your first boyfriend, Finn. She was never very fond of Finn, especially after hearing about your _extracurricular activities_. But now that you think about it, Lexa never really cared for any of your significant others, and – wait, what? The realization strikes you like a bolt of lightning, paralyzing you, in a manner of speaking, without any time to process.

“Just a friend?” she asks, also turning around in the small space between the island and the sink. You’re chest-to-chest with her – you can even feel her hot breath on your face – and it makes you feel light-headed. She’s challenging you or some reason, and you don’t think you like it, but it’s hard to be sure when she’s so fucking close. You don’t want to play this game with her, but you also don’t want to lose, so you decide to change the subject. And the first thing that comes to mind?

“Why are you back, Lexa?” you ask, the words rushing out of your mouth. You see her posture dip slightly and you know you’ve won, but on second thought, you’re not sure you’re ready to hear the answer. So, maybe you both lose.

“Are you sure you want to know?” she asks, and no – you’re really not. But you nod anyway.

(Because you’re an idiot, remember?)

She exhales deeply, looking at you in question, and you can tell she’s trying to muster up the nerve for an explanation. “I…” she starts, then trails off as her gaze finds the kitchen floor.

You feel yourself softening at her uncertainty, just like you always do, and redirect. “Are you giving up control of your company?” you ask, and her eyes snap to yours.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “Someone very close to me once told me that happiness isn’t a business transaction, and I – I think he was right.” It sounds an awful lot like a confession, and for some reason, you can’t help but wonder about the man behind the message. You can’t think of a time when Lexa may have ever been receptive to such a message, but clearly, a lot has changed since you’ve been separated, and it’s utterly mind-blowing that she’s telling you otherwise now.

“What about your parents’ wishes for you?” you ask.

“My parents’ only wish for me was for me to be happy,” she whispers, eyeing you with uncertainty, and it makes your heart clinch in a needy kind of sadness.

“So, you think you’ll find happiness here?” You avert your eyes for her answer, turning your body slightly, bracing to hear anything but what you want to hear.

(That she’s staying. Here. With you. Forever.)

“I do,” she breaths. “I think I already did, years ago. I was just too stupid to realize it.”

You look at her, brows furrowed together in confusion again. It’s starting to become the norm when you’re around her, apparently, and you kind of hate it. She chuckles at your confusion, and takes a step back.

“I’m sorry, Clarke. I don’t want to bother you with this. I should probably go, anyway. It’s getting late.”

You nod, following her as she walks to the door to let herself out. Your head is swimming in uncertainty, and you think it’s a sign that she’s chosen to end the conversation early, but before she steps across the threshold and into the hallway, she pulls you in for a hug and you feel something building within you.

Maybe it’s courage or curiosity or something else – you don’t know. Maybe it’s love.

But regardless of whatever it is that has you reaching out to grab her hand after she finally steps across the threshold, one thing is clear:

You know this woman. You know her heart. Even after nine years apart, you know there’s only one thing that could convince her to give up her parents’ company and bring her back to DC.

You squeeze her hand and smile at her with all your tenderness, then you ask her.

“It’s love, right?”

Her eyes sparkle as she looks at you, stunned and confused, and so, so, so beautiful.

Her response is only a whisper, but you think you’ll dream of it forever because it cuts through you so deeply.

“The greatest love,” she says softly, eyes shining so sweetly underneath incandescent lighting that you wish you could freeze this moment in time forever.

Because now you realize, with full conviction – you may never have her in all the ways you want her, but having her in any way will always be enough.

After all, you're pretty sure that’s what love is.


	5. Preventing Grouchmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke is in Arkadia for Christmas before anyone else arrives, and finds herself a bit frustrated and in need of some special attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated to M... for things.
> 
> It's been a while. My bad. Clarke and I have both been busy girls.
> 
> While this specific kind of chapter wasn't in the plan, I'm just going to go with it. It is not the last chapter, though I did originally think this story was going to be limited to five chapters. More to come. ;)

You’re frustrated.

Sexually.

_Sexually frustrated._

You have been so busy working since the success of your summer exhibit that you barely even notice it’s almost Christmas until Raven starts begging you to tell her what gift you’re giving her. Hell, you barely noticed that the season even changed, let alone that it changed _twice_. The corresponding stress of last minute shopping and having to suddenly stop everything that you’re working on to come to Arkadia and watch the house while your mom is out of town takes a different kind of toll than the weeks upon weeks of long hours you’ve grown accustomed to. Then again, maybe it’s the pause you give yourself that puts your exhaustion into perspective…

Maybe now that you’re not focusing on anything but navigating through the hordes of spatially inconsiderate shoppers, it’s easier to feel the depth of the pounding ache in your lower back. The kind of ache that can only be quelled by a good, rough and raw-

 _“Fuck!”_ you shout as you feel the impact of a collision. The hundreds of eyes that glare at you through disapproving squints do not go unnoticed.

“Oh, shit,” you hear, as you grasp your bags and fall ungracefully to the sidewalk beneath you.

And yes, you’re pissed, but you’re entirely capable of letting it go… until you hear the woman giggling incessantly above you. You open your eyes to glare at the source of your growing rage but soften when you see a familiar face.

“Niylah?” you say, gazing upward. Holy shit, does she look great. She bends down until she reached eye-level and then smiles at you, and suddenly, all the probably lovely but stupid-in-this-moment people melt away.

“Ms. Griffin… when is the last time you had your eyes checked?” she delivers through a smirk, and her eyes give a twinkle when you respond by rolling your own baby blues.

“My eyes are not the problem, doctor,” you reply before grabbing onto the hand she offers as she stands up. “Your ass on the other hand…” you add, and she tries to pull her hand away playfully to let you fall onto your rump again, but you’re not having it. “Your ass is…,” you spin her around despite the bags in your hands and make a loud, obnoxious grunt of approval that makes her blush. “Well, let’s just say you can wreck me any time.”

Watching Niylah’s jaw drop in response your brazen innuendo is bittersweet. On one hand, you love flirting with her, but on the other hand you’re even more aware of the growing wetness between your legs.

“Damn, Clarke,” she says, watching as you unconsciously clinch your thighs together. “How long’s it been since you got laid?” she asks, and you groan in both desire and embarrassment.

“Too long,” you mutter, helplessly.

“Good thing to be back in Arkadia, then?”

“What, so I can hook up with everyone I hooked up with in high school? No, thank you.”

“You’re sure? I heard Finn’s in visiting his parents. I have his number and know for a fact that he would love to hear from you.”

“Gross,” you say, but then again… “And how do you know that?”

“I just do. Listen, I know most of the city crew aren’t getting in until tomorrow and I know Abby’s out of town, too, so if you need me to pass a number along I’m happy to do it. I can’t take another Grouchmas this year, Clarke.”

“What?” you scoff. “I’m fine.”

“Please. The holidays are stressful enough, and when you haven’t gotten laid in,” she pauses to look you over through squinted eyes, “six months, well… I know the odds.”

You scoff again as you shake your head. You don’t want to hook up with Finn or any of the other fuckboys you’re usually into. No, you’re in no mood for men right now.

“What if you come over?” you ask. You’ve crossed this line before back in high school and you both had a great time, but for whatever reason it hasn’t happened since.

“Me?” Niylah asks, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “What, and be murdered by Lexa? No, thank _you_ ,” she says.

“Oh, please,” you reply. “She was protective in high school, yes-”

“And college,” Niylah adds.

“Fine, she was also protective in college, but we’re past that,” you state, matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, right,” she chuckles amusedly. “Lexa Woods will never be past that.”

You release a sigh of annoyance and stop for a moment only to realize you’re still outside the mall, being one of those spatially inconsiderate people you despise so much.

“So… what? She can grow up and stop being my keeper,” you spit.

“Big words,” Niylah hums. “And never going to happen.”

You let out a grunt of frustration in response before mumbling out the question, “Well, why the hell not?”

“I have my suspicions,” Niylah says. “But it’s fucking freezing outside and my mom asked me to pick something up at Williams Sonoma.”

“Fine. To be continued?” you ask as you move in to give your friend a hug and she hums in agreement.

“Nice to see you early, Grouch,” she says into your hair. “Let me know if you change your mind about doing your douche bag ex-boyfriend.”

“That’ll be a cold day in Hell,” you reply. “Anyway, nice to see you too. Excited to have everybody over on Saturday, so see you then. Give you mom my love.”

“Will do. Drive safe, babe!”

-

Hours after you arrive home and finish wrapping gifts, you find yourself so bored and horny that you think maybe you should have taken Niylah up on her offer to pass Finn’s phone number along. It’s no surprise when you finally carry yourself up to your childhood room to take care of the itch that’s been growing relentlessly over the last few days.

You’re not sure how you feel about it – touching yourself amidst the pastel walls of yesteryear – but you don’t have much of a choice unless you venture outside your room, and no. _God_ , no.

So, you take your top and bra off and put earbuds in, then you close your eyes and picture that you’re somewhere else. You unbutton your jeans to the sound of Joni Mitchell and breathe a sigh of relief when your hand slips beneath lacy fabric. You take your time and tease yourself – you work yourself up so much that the cold air feels good to your erect nipples – and when you finally allow yourself to venture inside you’re so fucking close that you’re going to blow at any –

“Fuck! Clarke!” you hear a voice shout, and you’re so mortified that you pull your hand from your pants and your earbuds from your ears and grab at the comforter beneath you to cover yourself before you even see who it was that shouted and ran out the door.

“Fuck!” you yell back, grabbing at the floor for your discarded bra and shirt. “Who the fuck is here?” you shout, but you don’t get a response. You sigh, feeling the heat in your cheeks and the wetness in your pants. Apparently, the universe _does_ have it out for you, and you determine that the best course of action is to clean yourself up before heading downstairs to see if the intruder is still around.

And by the time you venture downstairs, of course the intruder is still there.

And of course, the intruder is Lexa.

And of course, Lexa caught you masturbating.

You are beyond mortified. Really, you have no words. Are you fifteen? It feels like you’re fifteen. God, why did it have to be her?

She’s leaning against the kitchen island, looking at some pictures on your mother’s fridge – pictures of you and her and the Blakes when you all were coming up – and when you step on the second-to-last stair, it creaks, and you feel yourself wincing before she even starts to turn around to connect eyes with you.

“Clarke,” she says, and you notice that she’s just as red from embarrassment as you are. “I am so sorry,” she says with genuine remorse. “I should have texted, or at least knocked… I- I don’t know what I was thinking…” she admits, and honestly, it makes you feel so much better that you’re not alone in this. Seeing this beautiful, powerful woman reduced to a blubbering mess? Well, silver-lining, you guess.

“Lexa,” you interrupt, because she’s still going, “what happened to you coming into town tomorrow, with everyone else?” you ask, because obviously you wouldn’t have been doing _that_ to yourself had you known she was coming in early.

She stops and takes a slow breath, raising her hand to her forehead.

“I wanted to surprise you?” she mumbles. “I had to cancel movie night last week, and I knew you were going to be… alone… tonight… and fuck, I should have texted. Clarke, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean-”

“Lex,” you interrupt through an amused grin. You’ve never seen her so shook and it’s incredibly endearing. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean to walk in while I was… self-stimulating,” you chuckle, and she spins around to look at you with wide eyes.

“How am I more mortified than you are?” she asks, incredulously.

“Because I’m an adult,” you tease. “And adults have needs and we’re not ashamed, obviously.”

“Oh God,” she says, slapping her palm to her forehead once more.

“How are you so weird about sex?” you ask, honestly, because almost every time it comes up she behaves this way. You would have thought it was an age thing when you were both younger; however, since she came back into your life, she’s still a giant weirdo about it. And she’s thirty!

But maybe you’re just insensitive. You shouldn’t be, you think. You should be supportive.

“I’m sorry,” you say before she can reply. “Maybe I’m weird about sex,” you admit, because maybe it _is_ you.

“Clarke,” she says, taking a steadying breath. “Do you always take your shirt off when you ‘self-stimulate’?” she asks, and you feel your mouth fall open in delight.

“Well, well, Woods,” you drawl. “I do always take my shirt off,” you say, watching her closely. “I love breast play.”

“You were pretty wound up,” she states, as she shifts against the island. “Hope my intrusion didn’t ruin things for you.”

“You did!” you exclaim. “I need to get laid so badly,” you admit, and she nods in understanding.

“Me too,” she hums, and you can’t believe it.

“What? What about Costia?” you ask.

“What about her?”

“Why don’t you sleep with her?” you offer, and she looks at you through bulging eyes.

“Why would I do that?” she returns.

“I-” you start, suddenly confused, “Aren’t you guys together?”

“What?” she asks, crossing her arms uncomfortably. “No! Costia’s married, Clarke!”

Your head spins – as it does – momentarily broken by this new information. How the hell did you miss that?

And all the sudden, you feel sorry for her. After all, you know what unrequited love feels like. So, without any prompting, you walk over to the liquor cabinet and start pouring whiskey. When you turn around with two glasses in hand, Lexa stares at you questioningly, and you think it’s because she knows you know, so you hand her the glass and let it go before changing the subject.

“So,” you say. “Let’s find some real estate,” you suggest as you walk to the book shelf in the living room.

“Real estate?” she echoes inquisitively, following closely behind.

“Bodies to bang,” you mutter nonchalantly as you hear her take a big gulp from her glass of whiskey. You reach the bookshelf, and pull out an old high school yearbook, then turn and hand it to her.

“Jesus, Clarke, you want to –” she trails off. “Our high school yearbook, really?”

“Well, considering where we are it is relevant,” you point out.

“Yeah, but…” she pauses, unsure. “So, you’re telling me that you’re going to find someone we used to go to high school with… to…”

“Fuck. Yes,” you offer up in confirmation, watching her twitch in response. She is _so_ weird about sex.

She looks at you for a moment and you stare right back. You can tell she’s searching, but you aren’t sure what she’s looking for.

Finally, she asks. “Why?”

“Because,” you say, taking the empty glass out of her hand and walking back over to the liquor cabinet to facilitate refills. You hand her glass back to her and you’re surprised when she takes it down in one gulp and then pours herself another glass without pause. She looks at you through long lashes and glossy eyes and you purse your lips together while you decide if you should continue. But God, the way she’s looking at you. You really don’t have a choice.

“There could be another Grouchmas if I don’t get laid,” you say. “I’m so tense and tight,” you add, and you think you see her shiver in response, but you can’t be sure.

“So, what? You’ll go through your phone, or to a bar, or?”

“Well, Niylah says Finn is back in town,” you mutter without much thought, and you’re not mistaken – you definitely hear her scoff.

“You can do better than Finn,” she says, with a new edge in her voice.

“Yeah, well, Finn is easy, and available…”

“And that’s all you’re interested in?” The bite in her tone surprises you again for the umpteenth time tonight, and you find yourself spinning around to glare at her questioningly.

“Well, it is almost midnight,” you defend. “How else will I find a willing participant this late?”

You watch the gears in her mind turn over and her fists clinch and you’re not really sure where this is going, but you can’t pull yourself away because the moment is overwhelmingly electric and she’s so fucking hot when she’s like this. She’s already so close and you find yourself drawn to the heat radiating from her body. You want to press her up against the wall so badly it hurts.

“He won’t even fuck you like you want to be fucked,” she finally retorts, and holy fuck, you did not expect this. You’re not making it through the night without an orgasm. Not fucking possible. You bite your bottom lip as you feel your cheeks flush, and you can’t help but push this – _push her_ – further. Her eyes are blown from the alcohol and also from the subject matter, you think and hope, but you want to test your theory before making an utter fool of yourself.

“So, then help me,” you reply as you watch her intently. “Help me find someone who will fuck me the way I want to be fucked.”

She bites her lip, and you think it’s a good sign, but then she looks away from you and you worry that you’ve spooked her. Of course, you spooked her. How could you not spook her?

“I don’t want to help you find someone,” she says before finally looking up at you again.

“Why not?” you ask, still not giving up on this very familiar wet dream fantasy interaction.

“I don’t know anyone,” she says, and you laugh humorlessly.

“Bullshit,” you spit, satisfied when her jaw sets in response. You know she’s just as affected by you as you are by her right now. If it weren’t for the alcohol, maybe you’d realize what it all actually means, but you’re so caught up in the pleasure part that you can’t see beyond it.

“Clarke,” she groans pleadingly, and the fire in your belly burns to hear more of it. “You don’t know what you’re asking me to do,” she says with little conviction.

“I’m getting laid tonight,” you promise. “You can help me, or,” you pause as you press your body to hers and lean in to whisper, “I can find someone else to help me.” When your hot breath meets the shell of her ear, you feel her shiver and you know what you’ve done.

You pull away to observe the woman and God, does she look wild in a way you’ve never witnessed before. It takes your breath away and makes you realize the weight of your actions.

And you’d think about that more deeply if you could. Probably. But you can’t. Because you’re kind of drunk and really turned on, and when she pulls you back against her and you feel her hands on your ass, you get infinitely more wet than you’ve ever been before.

“Clarke,” she says, glaring at you with unrestrained desire. “Are you sure?”

Your hands move beneath her shirt and you nearly moan feeling the warmth of her skin beneath your fingers and the tone of her abdomen. You bite your lip as you stare up at her, then pull yourself away.

She looks at you confused as you start to walk away from her, but then when you start peeling your clothes away, item by item…

You turn around, topless once more, and Lexa’s jaw is nearly on the floor. You smile at her knowingly, then turn back around to ascend the stairs, feeling her hot on your trail.

When you finally reach your room, it’s dark and you’ve both shed nearly all of your clothes.

The moment when her bare chest connects with yours, you both moan freely, and you feel so light-headed and whole just by feeling her this close.

You can’t believe you’ve waited this long.

You can’t believe you get to see her and touch her in such intimate ways.

You can’t believe that you get to feel her mouth on yours, and her tongue on your nipples, and her fingers inside you, pushing you over the edge again and again and again.

And tomorrow when you wake up, you’re going to realize this isn’t fucking as much as it’s making love, but for now, you can pretend that this isn’t going to change anything between you.

For now, she can be yours.


	6. Reverse Christmas Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Clarke's spirited hookup, featuring Abby Griffin and Aurora Blake.

You’re floating in the in-between; states of lucid dreaming and tangible realism are both within an arm’s reach and when your mind flashes to green you slip further into consciousness.

 You’ve got a strange sensation low in your gut as a familiar voice calls to you through hushed pleas, and before it registers completely, vivid visions of last night come back to you in hazy fragments that are as beautiful and fragile as Christmas tree ornaments.

This time, the dream seems so real – the texture of her skin against yours, the feel of her moving inside you while you run your fingers through her wildly unkempt waves, the press of her lips to your neck, and your chest, and your stomach, and your inner thighs, and –

“Clarke, please wake up!” you finally hear, the words no longer unintelligible sounds but concise and articulate and desperate in their appeal, and it takes a long moment for you to register who the voice belongs to. Now, suddenly, not only are you awake, but the top-half of your body – _your very naked body!_ – is hellbent on being vertical before your eyes are even open.

And when you do finally open your dazed baby blues, the sight of her utterly ruins you.

Lexa Woods – your childhood crush and your teenage dream and your best friend and your all-time number one – is gazing at you with worried green eyes through messy tresses, clawing at a thin sheet that is barely covering her own naked body, and you are so, so, _so_ beyond stunned that you can barely even process what comes next.

“Clarke? Honey?” you hear from downstairs, and you see Lexa flinch at the sound of your mother’s voice.

“Oh God,” Lexa says, looking up toward the sky as if some higher power can help you both out of this _sticky_ predicament.

“Fuck,” you mumble in newly-realized agreement. “She wasn’t supposed to be home until tonight!”

“Well, she’s early, and all of our clothes are downstairs, and…”

“Oh God!” you finish for her as you hop out of bed like a woman possessed and nearly trip over yourself in your haste.

“That’s what I’m saying…” she begins, but she stops for a moment and looks at you with what can only be described as pure dread. “Clarke,” she continues as you turn your attention to the normally stoic woman. “You know she’s going to kill me, right? I’m not making it out of here alive,” she confesses, and it’s so absurd that you have to suppress a smile.

“Lex,” you purr, reaching for her hand. “She’s not going to kill you. She loves you and, whatever this is or was,” you pause momentarily to look away while flailing your hands in tandem, “she’ll get over it. Besides, it can’t get any worse,” you say with a laugh, but then –

 “Where did all of these clothes come from?” you hear Aurora Blake’s muffled voice ask your mother, and you immediately face palm.

“What the fuck,” you ask, unamused. “Is this some kind of reverse Christmas miracle?”

And when you hear multiple feet slowly making their way up the stairs and toward your bedroom, paired with casual chatter, like:

_“It looks like Clarke has a visitor, Abby…”_

_“Why, Aurora, I think you might be right. Whoever could it be?”_

_“Hmmm, well, if I’m not mistaken… isn’t this Lexa’s jacket? It does say Heda Leather on it, so…”_

You fucking panic!

Because before you know it, both your mother and Lexa’s aunt-but-might-as-well-be-mother are outside your door and all you can do is whisper-yell at Lexa to ‘hide, now!’ while simultaneously shoving her into your closet before tip-toe running back to jump into your bed just in time to hear them knock.

You close your eyes and pretend to be asleep. _Because that trick always works._

“Clarke,” your mom says, and you know whether you’re asleep or not, she’s coming in, so no use in trying to keep her out. If you had admitted to hearing them earlier, you would have had to explain why you didn’t answer, and well – let’s be honest, you’re screwed either way.

And when you hear the twist of the door knob? Well, you prepare to lie your ass off about everything.

Like, that time in the first grade that you confessed to her and Jake that you ate a little bit of glue at school to see what all the fuss was about?

_You would never._

And in third grade when you cut your hair?

That was peer pressure and bullying and… Jasper put those scissors in your hand.

And that rumor you started in middle school about Bellamy auditioning unsuccessfully for a spirited local boy band?

Actually, you’ll still own up to that because it was hilarious, and everyone gave Bellamy a ton of shit for it and, _well_ , it was payback for all the times he tormented you before then.

Honestly, you probably have a few more rumors to start because he tormented you after that too. And come to think of it, he still torments you to this day…

“Clarke,” you hear once more as the door opens and you’re pulled out of your little musings.

As your mother steps into your room, you try to be as convincing as possible in your facade of blinking awake slowly, then yawning and stretch, and –

“Oh, mom,” you drawl innocently. “Back so soon?” you ask through a princess smile.

“Mhm,” she hums. “Guess you weren’t expecting me so early, huh?” she returns, and you can hear Aurora poorly trying to suppress a chuckle behind her. “Whatever happened to your clothes, Clarke?” she asks with a raised brow and you want to roll your eyes, but you cannot so easily be defeated.

“Oh mom, you know I sleep naked,” you say, swatting at the air playfully.

“Since when?” she queries, her brow still raised in question. And yeah, it’s totally a lie that you sleep naked every night, but it’s not like she knows it’s a lie. Plus, sometimes you do sleep naked.

Mostly after sex, but… not important.

“For years,” you casually admit. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s just weird that I’m just now hearing about it, and finding you nude in your childhood room of all places,” she comments, slowly starting to look around your room. You can tell by the way she’s deliberately making a show of this interaction that she’s not only onto you, but clearly going for checkmate, and really, what were you expecting? “Plus, I can’t imagine being so tired that you tear off all your clothes before you even get to your room. The intent seems to have been a bit more inspired than simply going to bed,” she drawls right back at you as you try to school your features.

“Well,” you say, brain working through the default excuses to come up with _something_ believable. “I went drinking last night and got super drunk… and I mean, utterly wrecked… ‘cause you know I’ve never been able hold my liquor…” you pause to physically cringe before continuing, “and when I got home, I needed to get to bed quick so I… disrobed… on my way because efficiency and… drunk logic, right?” you attempt, and your mother responds initially by looking at you for a seemingly-endless moment, her sly smile annoyingly etched onto her face.

“Hmm,” she finally hums noncommittally after what feels like a lifetime. “You’re lucky to not have a hangover,” she says, her voice less accusatory and more nurturing.

“Matter of time,” you mumble, because of course you’re going to be hungover for a lot of reasons, not purely just the alcohol, and when she nods in understanding, you think you and Lexa might be off the hook.

And that’s probably one of the most foolish things you’ve ever thought because you should know by now who your mother is and what she’s capable of and the woman, like yourself, is not a fan of losing.

But you celebrate internally as she starts to walk toward your bedroom door, turning around once more before she and Aurora take their leave.

“Why don’t you get dressed while Aurora and I go whip up some French toast?” she offers, and you can’t even contain your smile.

“Yes please,” you say sweetly. “Thank you both so much,” you tell them, sinking into the mattress with newfound relief.

And just as they’re nearly out of your room, you see your mother take a quick turn for the closet, and HOLY SHIT, HOLY SHIT, HOLY SHIT!

No! She wouldn’t.

(Yes, she would.)

(Idiot.)

And when she goes for the door, you launch off the bed to try to beat her to it, but alas, she is no sucker, and so you’re boxed out and tumbling to the floor just before she pulls open the door to reveal a pseudo-calm Lexa who is clearly bugging out despite adorning your faux Leopard print fur coat while leaning casually against the back wall of the closet _as if she hasn’t just been caught hiding out in said closet._

“Oh!” she exclaims loudly before you or your mother or Aurora can get a word in, leaning forward to stand up straight. “Abby! Aurora! Nice to see you both!” says, clearly overcompensating. “I just stopped by to borrow this coat from Clarke, and also, while I was in here looking, I came across these Cowboy boots and thought, ‘wow-wee, these would surely go great together,” she says as she kicks the heel out on the boots she’s already wearing. “So, now that I’ve got these things, I’ll get going,” she continues, stepping out of the closet. “Thanks, Clarke, for letting me borrow these things, because as you know, I really needed them because I have an event that I need to look nice for, and… I’ll be on my way,” she finally concludes and she’s such a terrible liar and it’s incredibly endearing and you love her so much that you wish you could rip that coat off her right this minute to show her the depth in which your souls are connected, Abby and Aurora be damned.

“Oh, Lexa, honey,” Aurora says, and you snap your head to glare at the woman from your spot on your bedroom floor. “Why don’t you just change into your clothes scattered about the house and we’ll all have breakfast together?” she asks, and your mouth falls open at her blatant acknowledgement of what happened.

“ _What_?” Lexa scoffs. “Those clothes… aren’t… _are_ … mine. Yes,” she struggles adorably, and you watch her newly aware of the growing throbbing between your legs. “But, I’m sure Clarke’s got other things to do, and…”

“Oh, stop it,” Aurora chastises. “Clarke would love to have breakfast with you after the night you spent together, right Clarke?” she asks, and you feel adrenaline rush to your head.

On one hand, you’re pissed at Aurora for calling you and Lexa out, but on the other, you’re not sure if you’ve ever admired her more.

And when Lexa’s eyes and Abby’s eyes join Aurora’s as they peer down on you from above, your cheeks burn red and your mind spins, and you don’t have time to think, and God, how can you even process this?

And as your mind continues to flail, your heart steps in to cut through the noise of uncertainty, and for the first time in your life, you listen to it when it tells you to be brave.

So, you’ll take the leap.

It’ll be small and tentative and even so, your heart beats more proudly in your chest when you stand up from the floor, grasping at the blanket you’ve got wrapped around you. Clumsy as you are, you nearly stumble again and of course, Lexa takes a step forward to catch your shoulders, steadying you as your eyes meet, and green is all you need to see before you jump.

“Well, Clarke?” Abby says, and you’re too busy looking at Lexa to turn to her or Aurora, but you can see both of them smiling peripherally.

You take a slow breath as Lexa’s brows knit together in question. She looks as baffled and horrified by this strange parental interaction as you do, and you think that letting her off the hook would be the kind thing to do.

But you’re done with that.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s the least you can do,” you say, and when her eyes widen in shock and Abby and Aurora chuckle without pretense, you reach out to grab her hand to give a comforting squeeze.

“I suppose,” she says, spinning around to covertly analyze Abby’s body language, you think. “Because you’re letting me borrow this coat that I need for the really important event, and for no other reason,” she reiterates, and Abby laughs.

“Lexa,” your mom says through a smirk. “We’ve talked about this!”

“What?” you ask, because what? And when Lexa groans, you know you’re in the dark about something.

“Nuh uh,” your mom replies. “Clothes, now. Aurora and I are going to go get started on breakfast,” she says, eyeing you. “You’ve got twenty minutes,” she states, brows raising in seriousness. “Do not make us come back up here,” she warns, looking between you and Lexa, and when you turn to look at Lexa yourself, you think she might pass out from all the excitement.

You’re still looking at her when the door closes and as footsteps begin to descend the stairs. She hasn’t looked at you in a few minutes, but she’s moved to the bed to sit down and is grasping at her head as though her hangover is now in full-swing.

You walk to your nightstand and grab the Advil from the top drawer and the glass of water sitting on the top surface, then join her on the bed.

“So,” you start as you twist the lid of the bottle and pour four pills into your hand, glass of water balanced in between your thighs. Lexa looks at you through her long waves again and takes two pills when you hold out your hand. “Some hangover,” you remark, tossing back the pills and taking a sip of water before handing the glass of water to Lexa to do the same.

She closes her eyes and humorlessly chuckles before she throws her head back and swallows hard, and you can’t help but wonder what’s going through her mind. You want to press her, but she looks overwhelmed, so you give her time.

“I can’t believe them,” she says after a few minutes. “I can’t believe they’d call us out like that.” She takes another sip of water, then hands you the glass so that you can pass it back to the nightstand, and when you do, you turn back around to find her cradling her head in her hands. You want to scoop her up and tell her it’s okay, but you’re not sure why she’s so upset.

“Are you okay?” you ask because you’re not sure how else to continue the conversation without prying.

“I’m okay,” she breathes out slowly, reaching out to take your hand. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“I’m okay,” you smile at her delicately, and you feel your heart stutter when she squeezes your hand.

“I think we should get dressed,” she suggests, and suddenly you feel disappointed that this moment won’t evolve in the way you need it to. You must do a lousy job at hiding your disappointment because before you know it, Lexa is turning to you and softly reaching out to take your face into her hands and it’s so unexpected that your breath noticeably hitches, and you think, it’s got to be impossible for her not to know what she does to you.

“I don’t mean that we shouldn’t talk about this,” she clarifies, gently stroking your cheek. “It’s just that this… _this_ was a bit unforeseen and I’ve got a lot to say and nowhere near enough time to say it,” she says, and you find yourself nodding in uncertainty, but nodding nonetheless. “I need a few days to sort through some stuff, but after, you have my word that we can talk, _for real_ ,” she promises, and you nod again as you try to silence your curious mind and quell your wrenching heart.

“Now,” she transitions as she stands from the bed and reaches her hand out for yours once more. “I believe having breakfast with you is the least I can do,” she teases, and you smile and take her hand. “But first, let’s swap out our makeshift attire for something a little more appropriate, yeah?”

“Yes,” you acquiesce. “Or else my coat is going to smell like sex forever.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

And later, after an awkward breakfast full of terrible jokes at yours and Lexa's expense, courtesy of your prying mothers, you think, if you and Lexa can make it through this, then you can make it through anything.


	7. Timing is Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke is done waiting. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thank you to everyone who has commented and given kudos. I very much appreciate all the feedback and it warms my heart that this one has gotten the reception it has. It has been a challenging and rewarding endeavor, as endeavors should be, and I feel lucky to have had so many of rooting for this story. 
> 
> Have a happy new year! <3 
> 
> Until next time.

It’s been two days since _Awkward Breakfast_ and you haven’t seen Lexa once.

But it’s okay. You’re totally fine. It’s not as if her elusiveness is a new thing, you just thought that after sleeping together she might cool it on the disappearing act for a while.

Of course, she did ask for three days’ time to figure stuff out _or_ _whatever_ , so it’s not as if she’s blowing you off. Plus, you’ll see her tonight at holiday party you and your mom host every year.

“Hew,” you release a long sigh in preparation.

The party is going to be great.

You are going to be great.

Everything is going to be fine.

-

Hours later the party is in full swing and everything is most certainly not fine, let alone great.

“Clarke,” a voice sounds from behind you but you can’t be bothered to turn around, so you just grunt instead.

“Oh wow,” the voice continues. “So, Grouchmas it is, then?”

You sigh loudly, then turn around to glare at Niylah. She’s not wrong – you should be happy because everyone is together and in good spirits.

But even though the drinks are flowing and the music’s blasting and your friends are dancing merrily, you can’t bring yourself to so much as fake a smile.

“You could have called me! I could have gotten Finn! And yeah, everyone knows he sucks, but that could have worked out in your favor!” Niylah exclaims, as she reaches out to squeeze your arm in concern.

“Niylah, don’t worry. I got laid,” you say flatly, watching as her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Okay,” she tentatively drawls in question. “So, then, what is the meaning of this _foul_ , foul mood?”

“Well, _Niylah_ ,” you say through gritted teeth. “Suppose _you_ sleep with someone… someone you’ve liked for a while, right? And say the sex is _mind-blowing_ and _life-altering_ and _can’t-go-back-universe-melting_ ; and then, when it’s all said and done, she asks for a few days and you oblige because you’re a good person, but then she doesn’t come around for a couple of days and when she finally does come around, she’s too busy talking to everybody else to even say hello to you. How would _you_ feel?” you ask, voice dripping with snark and when sweet Niylah looks at you like you’re out of control, you realize you might be more on edge than you thought.

“First off, _you_ need to calm the fuck down,” she sasses back after a beat, and honestly, you deserve it. “We good?” she asks, voice still hard, and when you nod, she hums in approval. “Now, personally, I’m happy that something finally, _finally_ happened, but you know Lexa… she’s always got a plan,” she says, and you nearly fall over from the momentum of spinning around so quickly to square off inquisitively.

“ _What?_ ” you ask, taken off-guard by Niylah’s accurate deduction. “What makes you think something happened with Lexa and I?” you ask, trying to be so casual as to not give yourself away.

“Oh, c’mon Clarke,” she starts. “You’re going to burn a hole in her at any moment. You’ve been glaring at her all night.”

“That doesn’t mean I hooked up with her!” you point out, but it’s a bit too defensive to be believable despite it still being a perfectly sound argument.

“No, you’re right,” she hums. “But paired with a certain rant from moments ago…” she starts, but before she has a chance to finish –

“And what do you mean _‘finally’_?” you interrupt hastily.

“Clarke,” she scoffs at you, looking at you as if you’re in denial or something. “I can’t believe it’s taken this long. I seriously cannot fathom it. After decades of pining, Jesus…”

“You say that like I’m in love with her,” you comment, and when she gives you the ‘you’re not fooling anyone’ glower, you take another route. “Well, it’s not as if she’s in love with me.”

She pauses for a moment, licking her lips before pursing them together. She’s staring at you with something you can’t recognize, and you feel as though you’re under a microscope but it’s not yet so uncomfortable that you need to turn away. After a few long moments, she takes your shoulders in your hands as she draws in a deep breath, then finally –

“Clarke Griffin,” she drawls. “I’m not going to tell you that Lexa is in love with you because it’s not my confession to make. But girl,” she says, pausing for effect, “look over my shoulder…”

Your eyebrows furrow together again as you try to resolve what Niylah is getting at, and when she discreetly nods in encouragement, you decide to humor her.

“What do you see?” she asks, as you peer over her left shoulder.

“Lexa,” you say. “She’s looking over here and smiling,” you state dully because it’s true that you’ve been staring her all night and while she hasn’t really been seeking you out to make eye contact or to throw a smile your way, you don’t think this behavior is anything out of the norm.

“Yeah, but her fists are clinched, aren’t they?” she asks, and when you take another look you see Niylah’s right.

“Okay, so what?” you ask.

“So, Lexa’s almost impossible to read, always has been,” she says, and you blink indignantly in response. “That said, Lexa’s one tell is that she clinches her fists when certain things bother her. Now, usually, it takes a lot to get her there – she’s very good at schooling her emotions, as you know. And there are only a handful of things that can elicit such a response. She _is_ the commander for a reason,” she muses.

“Right, so, then… what things?”

“I’ve personally witnessed it only four times. The first time was in tenth grade when that Ice Nation player slid into Anya and broke her arm during State. The second time was during her parents’ funeral, obviously. The third time was in college when some dude got handsy with Costia at a bar. And the fourth time isn’t so much a one-time thing because over the years, Lexa has clinched her fists many, many times, all because of you.”

“Because of me?” you repeat. “Oh, because of Finn?”

“Finn, Derek, _whoever_.”

“That doesn’t really prove anything,” you counter, and Niylah gazes at you with mischievous eyes before offering up a sly smirk.

“Would you like more tangible proof?” she asks, with a raised brow, and you don’t know what she’s got up her sleeve but you nod your head in agreement anyway.

So, when she takes your face into her hands and leans in and kisses you softly, you’re a bit taken aback, but you’re curious so you go with it. The kiss is long but soft and rather innocent, and before you even detach from her you think it will be all for naught. But then, when you finally do separate from one another, the first thing you see when you open your eyes is a clearly ruffled Commander crossing the room like she’s about to go into battle. You look back at Niylah, whose arms are still draped around you, only to find playful sparkling eyes and her goofy, knowing smirk on clear display.

“Niylah,” Lexa says, as you tighten your grip on Niylah chance a glance at the woman who occupied your bed a mere three nights ago. “How are you?”

“Oh,” Niylah says, pulling one of her arms to turn around to greet Lexa while keeping the other firmly planted around your torso. “Commander, hey. I’m well, thanks,” Niylah answers. They’re always like this – curt and slightly cold – and you never really understood it but you think it’s finally starting to make sense, thanks to Niylah.

“Clarke,” Lexa then says as she turns to you, noticeably softening. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you…” she offers, and you’re kind of shocked that she’s bringing it up now in front of Niylah, even if only in a miniscule way, and it makes you wonder why she would do so when she hasn’t been particularly chatty about these matters in the past.

And the more you think about it, the more you wonder what her angle is.

But then it dawns on you, finally – the protectiveness you’ve long attributed to Lexa isn’t so much about protecting you as it is about marking her territory.

And this grand revelation that is entirely awing to everything you were, are, and will ever be, makes you feel powerful and confident in ways you’ve never felt before.

But it also reignites the fire that’s been kindling in your belly since the start of the night.

“Have you?” you reply with vigor.

“I…” she starts, and when you see a brief flash of hurt on her face, you almost regret it. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted,” she says.

And just as you’re about to agree – just as about to give her a real piece of your mind – Niylah beats you to the punch.

“Interrupt?” she asks nonchalantly. “Oh, that kiss?” she continues, and when you see Lexa wince in discomfort you purse your lips in satisfaction. But then Niylah goes and ruins it by saying, “Lexa, it was nothing. Clarke and I are two friends who simply ended up under a mistletoe.” And you’ve got to give the woman credit as your eyes glance above to confirm the existence of said mistletoe – she’s good.

“But anyway, I think my date will be arriving soon, so I should be ready to greet her. I’ll catch up with you later, Clarke?” Niylah asks, and you nod in agreement. “Lexa, nice to see you as always. Glad to have you back this way,” Niylah adds, reaching out to shake Lexa’s hand.

“You too, Niy. Merry Christmas,” Lexa offers, and with that Niylah is on her way, but not before sending a covert _‘told you so’_ wink your way.

“So…” Lexa awkwardly drawls and when you stare back at her unamused through raised brows, she looks down at her feet restlessly.

“What was that?” you ask, no fucks given.

“What was what?” she returns, looking up from the floor to glance at you in question.

“C’mon, Lexa, don’t play coy with me,” you respond, an exaggerated eye roll added for effect. “You haven’t say hello to me all night – you’ve barely even glanced in my direction. It’s only when I end up kissing someone else that you finally decide my existence is worth acknowledging. That’s so shitty,” you say as you turn to walk away, but of course, she follows close behind.

“I –” she says, trying to keep up with you as you navigate through the crowd of people. “I -, Clarke, will you wait up?” she says, seemingly frazzled as she follows up the stairs and toward your bedroom.

“No, Lexa, I’m through with waiting,” you tell her as you surge ahead until you’re through your bedroom door. She stops there, cheeks flushed, and stand with the door open looking at her until she gets the hint to come inside.

“I asked for three days,” she states meekly. “It’s only been two.”

She stands close to the door with her hands in her jean pockets while you move to sit on the bed. You sigh as you look at her, pretty as ever in her ugly red sweater.

You’re past the point where you can deny that she’s the love of your life.

You can’t and won’t do it any longer.

“Well, I’ve been waiting for you since I was ten-years-old and I can’t do it anymore,” you reply softly eve though your head is thick with adrenaline and your heart is seizing in its cage. “Not like this.”

When her eyes snap to you and her breath hitches, you know you’ve got her attention.

“You left,” you say. “You left to go be Heda and you didn’t come back for nine years. Not even for my dad’s funeral. And not only do you not come back, you send me an email a year and like all my pictures and that’s nearly the extent of our relationship.”

“Clarke –” she starts, but you’re not finished.

“Then finally, _finally_ – after nine years you do come back and somehow you end up in my apartment building. So, not only are you back in my life but you’re inescapable, and every time I see you my heart starts beating a little bit faster and a little bit louder, and everything I’ve worked so hard to push down over the years comes rushing right back the moment you bat your eye lashes, and it’s making me fucking crazy,” you confess as you get up from your bed and start pacing back and forth.

After a near minute of silence, you feel your cheeks burning hotter with every second, and finally you turn to her.

“You can’t wait one more day?” she asks, a small smile playing at her lips and glossy eyes shining all for you.

And when you shake your head no, she nods in understanding.

“Okay,” she breathes out slowly, taking a step towards you. “You’re right – I left. Even though some part of me knew I’d never be happy running my parents’ company I felt I owed it to them to try, and while I don’t regret leaving, I do regret not having the guts to come back sooner.”

“Why doesn’t it make you happy?” you ask. “It’s everything you wanted before, so what changed?”

“It wasn’t everything I wanted. It was everything _I thought_ I wanted,” she amends for you, taking another step closer to you.

There’s another beat of silence before she speaks again, but you hardly notice because she’s mesmerizing in this moment.

“I didn’t stay away the whole nine years. I came back a few times. I saw Jake,” she pauses, pulling you from your trance while taking another tiny step, and you don’t give her the opportunity to finish.

“When?” you ask, curiously taking a step towards her.

“Right before he passed,” she says, licking her bottom lip. “You were on that trip to Costa Rica with Octavia, and he called me and asked me to come, and I did.”

“Why did he ask you to come?” you ask, eyebrows knitted together. “No one told me he asked you to come.”

“Well,” she replies, taking one more step toward you so that there’s no more than a foot between you. “Jake was the wisest person I’ve ever known, and somehow, he not only knew that I’d give up my family’s company, but he also knew that I’d do it for you,” she says, licking her bottom lip once more as she analyzes your response.

Your heart is screaming so loudly and your body is tingling and your mind is spinning.

“ _What_?” you breathe slowly, unsure of what she’s saying. “You’re going to give up your parents’ company?”

“No,” she says, reaching out to take both of your hands in hers. “I already did. I sold the company today. That’s why I haven’t been around. I knew this was going to happen eventually, so I already had a buyer, but after being with you the other night, I couldn’t do it again,” she says, and your heart clinches.

“Couldn’t do what?” you ask, entranced by her confession.

“Leave you,” she clarifies as she inches closer to you, and the closer she gets, the more you forget to breathe.

“Lexa,” you manage, as you look at her looking at your lips before you follow suit and look at her lips, too.

“I’m in love with you, Clarke,” she tells you, and your eyes snap up from her lips to find hers.

The confession is everything you’ve ever wanted and so much better in real life than all your dreams combined.

And in said dreams, you would melt, and be pliant, and it was all well and good then, but now that you’re in control, in more ways than one, you’re not going to let her command you.

“How long?” you ask, pulling back, and the sudden move has Lexa’s eyebrows shooting up in confusion.

“Uh,” she breathes. “How long have I been in love with you?” she asks, unsure of where you’re going with this. You nod, nudging her on. She shifts a bit, awkward and hesitant, but then mumbles, “Always?”

“ _What?_ ” you ask, because you’ve been in love with her since always too and you’re pissed at her for waiting so long.

“I can explain,” she says exasperatedly, most likely sensing that she’s in trouble, and it makes your heart smile. Which, _barf_ , but also _sigh_.

“Oh, do tell,” you say, pulling back far enough so that you can cross your arms and glare at her.

“Well, I -,” she starts, a little shaky. “This is going to sound crazy,” she prefaces.

“Try me,” you say, reaching out to take her hand to lead her to the bed. You both sit, holding your entwined hands together in your lap as she faces you.

“When I went to visit Jake, he confessed to me that he knew I was in love with you. I was quite shocked by his confession because there was a part of me had yet to realize the depth in which it was – _is_ – true. Anyway, so I was worried about it, because you’re his only daughter and in a lot of ways, Jake was like a father to me and I never wanted to disrespect him, but of course, he shushed me and told me what he really thought…”

“Which was?” you ask her, and a sweet smile blossoms across her face as she recalls.

“That we belong together,” she sighs. “That the whole world knew it and that the only thing that could keep us together was time.”

“Wow,” you say in wonderment, and she nods in understanding.

“When I left that day, I thought… _well_ , I don’t know what I thought. I just went back to New York and tried not to think about anything but work. But then when your mom called a few days later to tell me that Jake was gone… I just, I had to come back… to pay my respects, but also to see how you and Abby were doing, and –”

“You came back?” you ask, brows furrowing together as they always do, and she nods in confirmation.

“And after getting within fifty feet of you I knew that if I got any closer I’d never leave again. You were so, so broken, and I was hurting myself, but I had never felt so devastated and powerless than when I saw you standing over his grave. That’s when it occurred to me what Jake meant about time…” she says, squeezing your hand.

“Hmm?” you hum in question.

“’Play the long game,’ he always said.”

 “Lexa,” you sigh. “That’s why you’ve had both of us waiting all this time?” you ask, sympathetically, and another nod from her causes you to tug her closer.

“Clarke,” she says quietly. “There’s something else.”

“What is it?” you ask, concerned.

And when she rolls up her sleeve to reveal your fathers’ watch, your jaw falls open in awe.

“After Jake passed, this was mailed to the office with a note from Jake,” she says as she removes the watch from her wrist. “The note said, ‘the best has yet to come,’ and it was signed with a J.G. It also appeared to have been newly engraved with a Jake-favorite sentiment: ‘Timing is everything,’” she says, turning the watch in her hand to show you the detailed etching. “When I first received the watch it didn’t work, but I thought to myself, how often will I wear a watch in which I’m not the real owner? I had tried to give it back to Abby so that she could give it to you, but she wouldn’t do it. She told me Jake intended it for me and she would not go against his dying wishes,” she says, and you chuckle.

“God, she’s a genius,” you add.

“She is. So, I kept the watch and I only wore it on days when I needed a little magic, or –” she pauses, a blush creeping up her check until you reach up to brush her hair behind her ear, urging her to continue. “Or to feel closer to you,” she says. “Then, in February of this year, I wore the watch to work for a board meeting but left it at the office when I went to play racquetball with Indra. Later that day, I went back to the office to finish up some work but I kept hearing this clicking sound and it was driving me crazy to the point where I couldn’t focus. So, I went searching for the noise, and eventually found that the sound was coming from your father’s watch. It just started mysteriously working again after nearly nine years, at minimum, of _not_ working. What are the chances of that?” she retorts.

“Lexa,” you say her name again, hoping that you’re nearing the first crescendo of your long story together. “I love you, too,” you tell her, taking her face into your hands. “I don’t want to wait anymore and I don’t need some grand gesture, okay? Can we just be together?” you ask her, and instead of responding with words, she surges forward to connect your lips to hers. Her fingers brush against the skin behind your ear when she tilts you backwards and climbs atop you, kissing you once more before leaning up to straddle you.

“Hmm,” she hums, fingers pushing your shirt up so that she can run her hands along your exposed belly. “I want nothing more than to be together with you, Clarke, but I do have a confession,” she says playfully.

“What is it this time?” you ask, raising yourself up on your forearms.

“I wanted to wait until tomorrow because I kind of had something planned,” she says, and you look at her in question. “I bought a house,” she admits, finally, a slight chuckle falling from her lips when she sees your brow furrow in confusion. “Well, kind of a house… really, I bought your father’s old warehouse but I converted it to living space. Construction just finishes tomorrow… I moved the timetable up… after… and I know it’s really soon, but… I want you with me, whenever you’re ready, if you’ll have me,” she says, and all you can do to respond is pull her back down on top of you so that you feel her weight and the softness of her lips and her powerful heart beat against your chest.

And when the door opens, you don’t hear it until it’s too late.

“OH. MY. GOD. FUCKING FINALLY,” Octavia yells, overcome with excitement as she breaks into a sprint toward the bed only to slap Lexa’s rump before running back out your bedroom door.

And moments later after some sweet kisses and naughty promises, you carry yourselves out your bedroom door to rejoin the party.

And when you reach the top of the stairs and Lexa takes your hand in hers, you think it’ll be subtle way to let everyone in on the secret that’s probably never been a secret at all.

And when the party falls silent before you begin your descent, and the whole party looks up at the pair of you with utter delight, and you see Octavia with a microphone a moment too late, you cringe at what’s to come.

“Aaaaaaannnnnndddd noooooowwwww,” Octavia yells through the mic. “Innnnnnntroducing, the one, the only, CLEXXXXXXXXXAAAAAAA.”

And the crowd goes wild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I toyed around with ending the story with Lexa's grand gesture, but wanted to keep things simple and stay true to the heart of the story: two women in love who are incredibly different, and seemingly never on the same page, but similar in that they're always in their own heads around one another. It was important to me to have Clarke to be the one who finally breaks before Lexa can carry out her plan, because that's always been the conflict - Clarke needed to be brave and take the leap for once, to stop shying away from her feelings and start talking about them. And after, when all was said and done, that fifteen-year-old version of herself exclaimed "CLEXA" excitedly through her metal braces, and we did too. :)
> 
> Thank you again for all the kudos, comments, and support. Hope you enjoyed!


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